


Borderland Sorrows

by SerialChillr



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abelas’s hands, Complicated feelings but not a love triangle, Dragon Age Lore, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Existential Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Dagna/Sera (Dragon Age), Mutual Pining, Past Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Post-Trespasser, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Speculations about Abelas’s body, Speculations about Arlathan, Speculations about the Veil, world-building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2020-10-27 09:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 117,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20758280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerialChillr/pseuds/SerialChillr
Summary: A month after the Exalted Council, Nepenthe Lavellan has disbanded the Inquisition and is committed to stopping Solas. A task easier said than done without political, magical, or physical power. So when rumors of another Elvhen temple reach Skyhold, she jumps at the chance to leave difficult memories behind and investigate. Alone.But she is not the only one seeking the temple.Abelas, now an agent of Fen’Harel, intercepts her, and they are forced to work together against a common enemy. As information from each of their worlds comes to light, they find themselves with more in common than they originally thought.Or: Two sort-of enemies meet in the woods, angst and mutual pining ensue.Or: I wanted to write about Abelas and it somehow became an epic journey.





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome - (questions, constructive criticism, compliments, keyboard smashes, emojis, whatever).

Nepenthe opened her eyes slowly. A ray of dawn light slanted through the open window of her bedchamber, passing through the sheer curtains drifting on the breeze, and illuminating dust motes suspended in the air like stars. For a heartbeat, she felt untethered from time, suspended in transition from the Fade, until her eyes shifted to her arm. And like a physical blow that left her reeling, her mind caught up with her body’s waking. A hollow emptiness bloomed in her chest.

She spent minutes lying on her side, just breathing, her gaze locked on the place where her hand had once been. Now below her elbow was a stump, blackened streaks running up her arm like cold veins. The pain in her phantom limb was quiet now. The prickling, stinging sensation in her absent fingers usually didn’t start until midday. And by nightfall, it would be throbbing agony. 

She closed her eyes again, brows furrowing, a weight like a stone under her ribs as memories surfaced in her mind. Solas had once recounted a story about Arlathan as if it had been gleaned from the Fade and not his life, while he sat next to her on the couch, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles and not meeting her eyes. A thousand small deceptions. And beneath it all, the truth she hadn’t been clever enough to see. There were so many things she hadn’t been enough to do - not strong enough to wield the anchor, or important enough to change his mind, or fast enough to save her clan. Digging the heel of her hand into her forehead, she ground her teeth and pushed the thoughts aside. All that was gone. She sifted through the broken pieces inside her, honed them to a cutting edge on her anger, and put them on like armor. She breathed in, blew it out as a sigh, and opened her eyes again. 

Throwing off the thick feather duvet, she walked across the room to her dresser to inspect herself in the mirror. She swept the tangled waves of her cropped brown hair out of her face and rubbed her fingers along the sides and back of her head where her hair was clipped short. The gash just above one dark eyebrow, courtesy of the Saarebas last month, had healed but would leave a scar. Just another in the constellation of small scars marking her body. Her charcoal gray eyes were clear, although the skin under them was shadowed, a sign of how poorly she’d been sleeping. She pressed at the discoloration with her fingertip. Not much she could do about it, she decided. 

_ Dark eyes are unusual for the Dalish, are they not? _

She looked away from the mirror, pushing the intruding memory of his voice from her mind, her mouth settling into a line. 

Nepenthe dressed slowly, still adjusting to the difficulties of only using one hand and the changes it created in her balance. Her center of gravity was different to a degree that surprised her, but she supposed several pounds were now missing from that side. Both pounds and power, her mind supplied unhelpfully. Struggling into her leather breeches, she tugged at the laces to tighten the waist. She’d asked Dagna to help her tie a series of loops into the thin leather strap so that she could button it one handed rather than having to tie a knot. Like with most tasks now, it wasn’t impossible, it just required her full concentration and ingenuity to overcome.

She shrugged into a gray wool tunic top, one sleeve already rolled up, and glanced back in the mirror. She looked...tired. Not exactly what she was hoping for on a day when she’d called for a more formal meeting with her advisors and the remaining inner circle from the Inquisition. 

“Kaffas,” she swore under her breath, mentally thanking Dorian for the expletive. One of the simplest pleasures of meeting people from so many different places was that her vocabulary for obscenities had grown exponentially. Well, they’d all been through enough shit together to see each other at their worst. They could deal with tired. Jamming her feet into her boots, and throwing on a thick lambswool vest, she turned to leave. Just before she opened the door, she pulled for her magic and sent a burst of it into her amputated arm, creating a faint hand that glowed softly green. It was immaterial, translucent - useless for any tasks in the physical realm, but she found it helpful for working magic. And with the instability left after she disbanded the Inquisition last month, she wanted to be ready to do so instantly if needed.

It was quiet at the castle most of the time now, but especially in the early hours of the morning. The bulk of the forces, along with the mages, had already left to disperse across Thedas. Cassandra was fully entrenched in her duties as Divine, while Blackwall continued to travel, atoning for his crimes. Dorian had returned to Tevinter, Varric to Kirkwall, and Cole spent most of his time in the Fade… Of her closest companions, only Sera, Bull, and Krem remained, along with her advisors. She stepped into the courtyard, her breath making clouds in the mountain air, and crossed quickly to the stables. She’d taken to using this time, before she would attract an audience, to relearn how to tack and mount her horse, and train him to follow directions that no doubt felt different to him when she had only one hand to hold the reins. It was...not going all that well if she was honest. But the pressing need to go somewhere, do something other than remain at Skyhold was becoming overwhelming, and so she persisted.

When she entered the stables, her horse gave a slight whinny in greeting. He was one of the originals, brought by Dennet when he first arrived at Haven. She’d liked the gentle chestnut brown Forder, named Buddy by one of the children in Redcliffe farms, and had continued to ride him even as grander mounts were purchased or gifted to the Inquisition. Bull had desperately wanted her to rename him something more intimidating. Terror Hooves had been his favorite suggestion, but she couldn’t bring herself to undo the careful naming of that unknown child. Also, all of Bull’s suggestions had been terrible. And so Buddy he remained. 

She lifted the latch and led Buddy outside to a small enclosure on the side of the stables, mostly hidden from view should anyone happen to be up. It took multiple trips to get all the gear from inside, and longer still to groom and check his hooves. Not long ago, the stablehands would have handled the whole process, but even then, she’d liked to do it herself when time allowed. And now she couldn’t trust that help would be available when traveling, so she’d have to make this work. Saddle pad and then saddle were heaved into place, and she wished, not for the first time, that there was a spell to fasten buckles. It was impossible to get everything adjusted correctly with only five fingers. 

Perspiration formed along her hairline as she worked, despite the cool air. After the fourth failed attempt to fasten the girth around Buddy’s stomach, she ground her teeth and pulled the whole lot of it off in frustration. She’d ridden without a saddle before, maybe that would be easier in the long run. Buddy stood stoically as she attempted a sideways leap onto his back, hanging onto the mane above his withers with her good hand while trying to jump and swing her leg up and over him at the same time. It was an unsuccessful attempt that left her breathing hard, stubbornly clinging to his side.

“Are you trying to wrestle that horse?”

She looked up sharply in the direction of the voice, then saw it was only Krem and released her hold on Buddy, sliding to the ground. 

“No,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, “I’ll save that for when morale really needs a boost. Just trying to…” she gestured at the horse’s back, then dropped her arm in resignation. 

“Maybe you could stand on a chair.” 

She gave him a thin smile. “What about when I’m out in the field? Fenedhis, Krem," she said, rolling her eyes. "Can you imagine it?" With a sweep of her arm, she continued, mimicking a deeper voice, “There goes the mighty Herald of Andraste, galloping across Ferelden with an armchair strapped to her horse's arse." 

Krem snorted, “It wouldn’t have to be an armchair, ser. You could use a stool.” 

Nepenthe sighed, rubbing the end of her arm, “I’ll think about it.” She looked out past the Charger lieutenant’s shoulder toward the empty fighting ring, a few lone figures beginning to cross the courtyard. “Is this what it’s come to?”

Krem studied her face, fairly certain she was referring to more than needing something to mount a horse. 

“Don’t know if you need to hear this today,” he began haltingly, “but… you’re still you. Body parts, or lack thereof - that doesn’t define us.” He gestured towards her arm, “You’ll figure this out.” He paused, looking up at the scar in the sky where the breach had been healed, still starkly visible. “And we’ll figure the rest of this shit out, too. There’s lots that would follow you still.”

Nepenthe gave a humorless laugh. “They’d follow the Inquisitor or the Herald, or whatever stories they make up about me. I’m not those things anymore.”

Krem turned to look at her squarely. “They’d follow _ you_, ser.”

She looked up at the intensity in his voice, meeting his eyes. “Thank you, Krem.” She was on the verge of wanting to say more, just spill everything that had been tearing her apart, the worry, the doubt, the grief and rage and helplessness. She swallowed, pushed it down inside. _ Harden your heart to a cutting edge. _ “I’m glad you and the Chargers are still here.”

He tipped his head. “Wouldn’t miss it. Let me help you saddle up. You working on neck reining?”

She nodded. With only one hand, she could no longer separate the reins to each side of the horse’s mouth so she’d been trying to train Buddy to follow her leg cues combined with the feel of the rein against his neck. She’d have to figure something out she could manage alone eventually, but for now the offer of help was welcome. Maybe Dagna would have ideas. She’d have to speak with her this afternoon after the meeting. 

As it turned out, she didn’t need to wait. An hour into her practice with Buddy, she saw Dagna hurrying across the courtyard, a cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms. 

“Hey! I’m glad I caught you,” she shouted as she approached. “I have something to show you!”

She dumped the bundle on the ground and started sorting through it, speaking quickly as she did so. “I’ve been thinking about your hand and how there must be ways to make things easier, and then I thought, ‘Hey! I make things, I bet I could make something!’ So, I did.” She peered up triumphantly, a bridle in her hand. “Look, it has loops on the end, just like your laces.”

Nepenthe examined it, suddenly catching on. “I can put my arm through the loop I need and still ride with two arms.” She dismounted, sliding to the ground, and took the bridle from Dagna. “This will fit right above my elbow,” she said, slipping the loop over her arm and pushing it into place. “Let’s try it on Buddy.”

“Oh, wait - there’s more!” The dwarven woman bustled back to the cloth. She held up an iron cuff wrapped with a leather strap, a thin curved piece of metal at the end. “It’s kind of a prosthetic with a hook. I know you said you didn’t want one because it would interfere with spell casting and all, but you can wear this for tacking the horse at least and fastening the buckles and straps. And we can adjust the cuff to your arm.” She handed it to Nepenthe, who turned the contraption over in her hand. 

“This is perfect, Dagna. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Dagna said, beaming. “I have a few other things I’m working on for your armor so you’ll be able to put it on one-handed, but I wanted to give you these first.”

Nepenthe smiled, grateful for her thoughtfulness, and together they worked to remove the gear from Buddy so they could try Dagna’s new inventions.

* * *

Her phantom hand was starting to hurt, a feeling like electricity running down fingers that weren’t actually there. She’d tried a healing spell before, but it hadn’t worked. Nothing there to heal, she figured. She flexed her Fade fingers ineffectually, willing the pain to subside, and turned her attention back to the meeting in progress.

“We certainly still have enough nobles that are in our debt to continue to influence politics in both Ferelden and Orlais,” said Josephine, lifting one of the neatly lettered lists stacked on her clipboard. “Not openly, of course. However, without an army to back us... I am not certain how many we could actually count on.” She dropped the page back into place.

“That’s when we can compel them with blackmail,” Leliana added with deceptive sweetness.

Nepenthe turned the cuff at the edge of her ear absentmindedly. “It may be enough for now. We just need to keep buying ourselves time.” She dropped her hand and stood up. “The world at large thinks we’ve disbanded. Keeping a small force, our spy network, and our political influence will allow us to work from the shadows. It will give us time to figure out how we stop…him. Fen’Harel.”

_ I would not have you see what I become. _

She clenched her jaw and continued, “We have to learn how he’s planning to drop the Veil. We need _ something_. It’s been a month and we have nothing. Just more news of elves leaving. What is he even promising them? They’re no more prepared to live in a world without the Veil than we are!” She realized she was pacing and stopped in front of the war table, bracing her fist against the surface. “Leliana, has there been any word from Morrigan?”

“Yes, a message reached us this morning. She says that the voices from the Well of Sorrows have been silent, as they have been for more than two years now. But... there may be something. She recalls rumors of another elven temple, supposedly somewhere in the Korcari Wilds.”

“Why didn’t she mention this before?”

Leliana shrugged, “She’s Morrigan.” She pursed her lips, looking like she wanted to say more about that, but instead continued, “If we do not have a pressing need for her help, I gather she would rather stay settled with her son.” 

Nepenthe nodded. “Understood. We should check this out. If it contains anything like the Vir’Abelassan...”

“I can have someone look into it,” said Leliana.

“No,” said Nepenthe, shaking her head slowly, an idea developing. “I’ll go. If there is something there, we don’t want this accidentally getting back to Fen’Harel. Assuming he’s not already aware of it. I’m sorry Leliana, but we don’t entirely know where we may have leaks.”

“What? On your own? To another creepy, old elf temple? Bugger that!” Sera broke in from where she’d been leaning against the wall, quietly until now, a disgusted expression on her face.

Nepenthe turned to her. “I’m the only one here not doing anything. The rest of you all have important work to do. Including you, Sera,” she added as the blond elf looked like she was about to interrupt. “We need the Red Jennies more than ever and you’re our liaison. I can look around discreetly. I still have magic. Dagna made mods to my equipment so I can ride. I’ll be gone...” She made a quick estimate of the time it would take to travel to the southern edge of the Hinterlands bordering the Wilds, “...a few weeks.”

“I don’t know, Boss,” rumbled Iron Bull, “I’m all for rushing blindly into danger, but this seems like a risk you don’t need to take. Those sentinels at the Temple of Mythal weren’t exactly messing around.”

“I’ll be _ alright_. Look, I’m just going to see if there’s any truth to it. If there is, I’ll report back myself and we’ll come up with a strategy before we do anything.”

“Inquisitor...Nep... I don’t know what to call you anymore,” Cullen started in and then broke off, throwing his hands up in confusion.

“Nepenthe is my name, Cullen. You can call me that. Really.”

“I’m not comfortable with the idea of you going off with half a…” he clearly realized mid-gesture that he was indicating her arm and awkwardly tried to cover it by moving his hand to rub the back of his head instead. “Half a plan,” he finished lamely.

Nepenthe felt the color rising in her cheeks. “I don’t have ‘half a _ plan' _” she gritted out. “I have a _ plan _ that works just fine. And a _ plan _ that’s still more powerful than…” Ice crystals started to form at the tips of her Fade hand and she shook it out forcefully, closing both hands into fists. She took a deep breath and looked around the room, marking the concern written upon her friends’ faces. She knew, of course, that they were just worried about her, but their concern bordered on pity and the weight of who she had been before pressed against her. “I can’t stay here,” she said quietly. 

_ His face, turned toward the sun, laughing at something she’d said. His hand a warm weight against her back as he pulled her to his chest and she buried her face in his tunic, breathing in the smell of him, sage and wood smoke. _

She swallowed the lump in her throat, suddenly exhausted. “Please... I can’t stay here.”

Leliana spoke first, “You should go. I’ll give you some locations where you can check in as you travel, and send us a secure message.”

Nepenthe acquiesced to the concessions with a nod. She was going - it would be easy enough to manage a few stops to reassure them. With Leliana’s approval, the matter seemed settled, and the meeting moved on to the latest request for the Charger’s assistance.

Her mind wandered to the trip ahead. There was lots to prepare, and she found the prospect of being alone more appealing than she’d realized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Brain: Did you really just spend an hour watching videos on how to mount a horse so you could write three lines about it?  
Me: ….  
My Brain: It was longer than that, wasn’t it? You went down an internet rabbit hole of horse training blogs.  
Me: ...accuracy is important.  
My Brain: Accuracy is important... in your story, which is set in a so-called “dragon age”?  
Me: Yeeesss? …. I also made a joke about Krem standing on a chair.  
My Brain: Pretty proud of that, huh?  
Me: It’s basically why I started writing this whole thing.
> 
> You can also [find me on Tumblr](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/), where I sometimes post stuff.


	2. Setting Out

In the morning, after dressing in comfortable leathers and a linen top, she made her way to the kitchens to get a bowl of porridge from the cook and gather basic provisions for her trip: dried meat, apples, and waybiscuits, plus a water flask and a small cooking pan. Her next stop was a room just off the garden, where dried herbs and medicinal plants hung from the ceiling beams in neat rows. She picked through the various plants - dawn lotus for infection, embrium for fevers, elfroot for salves - tucking them into a small waxed bag. As she turned to leave, a flash of red in the corner of the room caught her eye. The single twisted branch covered with dried red berries clinging to their stems was not a cutting she had seen at Skyhold before. She twisted off one of the berries and rubbed it between her fingers, the fruity, slightly musky smell immediately identifying it as hawthorne. 

_ Hawthorne, for comfort during times of loss, dalen. It will soothe a saddened heart and lift grief. _ The scent brought back the sound of her mother’s soft voice in a memory that stung like a slap to the face. Her mother’s strong hands, deftly crushing the berries and sweeping them into a muslin bag for tea. Her mother’s light moss eyes meeting her dark ones, as she crouched down to stroke her cheek with fingers stained red from the berries. _ I wish I could protect you from ever needing it, my sweet girl. _

Grief shifted its coils around her heart and Nepenthe swallowed, closing her hand into a fist to stop the trembling in her fingers. It was her fault her mother had been killed, her fault their entire clan of twenty-two elves had been killed, after she had ordered the assassination on the Duke of Wycome. A mission that had immediately gone sideways, and ended in unimaginable horror for her family and the elves in the Wycome alienage. Unshed tears stung her eyes while she waited for her breaths to slow, and then she uncurled her fingers, crescent shaped impressions left in her palm. As she turned and walked out, she forgot to wonder who had brought hawthorne to Skyhold.

She stopped by the library next, deliberately using the entrance from the main hall to avoid the rotunda, and chose a book with the enthusiastic title _ The Exemplary Mage’s Proven Techniques for Glyphs that Work! _ A few weeks on her own should give her time to improve her wards - which, if she was being honest, were still somewhat lacking in both precision and stability. Next to the exuberant mage’s work was some kind of instruction manual for Orelsian cuisine, clearly misfiled. She picked it up, examining the drawing on the cover. It was a complex depiction of how to insert sliced peppers into hard boiled eggs to make something resembling a peacock, and it filled her with a sort of horrified curiosity. “Gross,” she whispered, thumbing through the pages of recipes - a crown made out of sausages, a roll shaped like a swan floating through cheese soup, an unidentifiable dish called Andraste’s Pillow. On a whim, she put it into her pack as well.

With mounting impatience, she spent an hour with Leliana in the rookery reviewing the checkpoint locations, the system of signals, and the code names that were currently in use. After Leliana had explained everything twice, Nepenthe began repeating the information, drumming her fingers against her thigh. 

“Fifteen miles south of Haven, there’s a cabin on the bank of the Lothbrook. Inside, to the left of the fireplace…”

“The right of the fireplace,” Leliana corrected.

“To the right of the fireplace,” continued Nepenthe, “there’s a loose floorboard where I can leave messages and pick up supplies if needed.”

“Good. And the name of the contact in Southfording?”

“Aralt. No, wait! Areld.” She looked up at Leliana, who remained silent, her mouth drawing into a line. “Shit. Argus? Ar....”

“Arlen.”

“Arlen. Shit. Right. I’m sorry, I know this is important.” Nepenthe rubbed her temples with her thumb and forefinger, wishing she wasn’t so exhausted all the time.

Leliana drilled her on the information until she had it memorized, which left Nepenthe with a pounding headache and a renewed respect for Leliana’s mind that bordered on fear. Coming down from the rookery, still analyzing the complex instructions, she suddenly found herself standing at the entrance to the rotunda. She stopped short, frustrated that muscle memory had brought her there. 

She hadn’t been in the room for a while, since well before the Exalted Council at Halamshiral, and the Crossroads, and learning who Solas truly was. Looking around the room he had covered with frescos, the familiar contours of her life were unrecognizable. All these paintings of her. She hated to admit even to herself how much her ego had soared, how flattered she had been when she realized he was painting her. But they weren’t paintings of her, not really, they were of the Inquisitor - larger than life, indomitable, victorious. 

And what would have been a suitable painting of her? One capturing the dark nights she hugged her knees to her chest by the corner of her balcony, feeling infinitesimally small and alone? One of the tear tracks on her bare stranger’s face, with the Frostbacks outlined in black against an indifferent star covered sky? One of her standing up, wiping the tears off her cheeks, and trudging on under the burden of her duty, despite the ache in her heart? 

She walked farther into the room. The desk had been cleaned up at some point, the books presumably returned to the library, his notes either tossed or tucked away in drawers that she had no desire to open. When he first left, after Corypheus, she’d told the staff to keep everything as it was, the simple objects of his research left like a sacred offering to summon him home. She rested her fingers on the back of his chair. Still _ his _ chair, even after all this time. 

She had accepted his decision in ending their relationship. There was something he wasn’t saying, she knew that even then, a distance he would arbitrarily withdraw to, but she figured it was some flaw of her own, some incompatibility between them that she would have also seen with time. And he had been content to let her think that. 

_ “Whatever you need, we can find together,” _she’d whispered into the muted dark. 

_ “No, we can’t. You’ll see.” _

And finally - _ finally _ \- she did see. But it was a fractal, dizzying view, like seeing with two sets of eyes. Each memory of him twisted until it tore apart, bleeding uncertainty into what was truth. Standing there, her emotions shifted like sand, slipping away before she could even name them. Anger was simpler. Anger she could latch onto like a lifeline. She turned and walked out of the room - shoulders back, head high. 

It was near midday by the time she wore simple leather armor, modified by Dagna so she could put it on one-handed, and a hooded traveling cloak. Tucked into her belt pouch was a small bag of coins and a suggested route map from Leliana. Using the prosthetic hook, she finished tacking up and bridling Buddy, securing her bedroll and a small tent behind the saddle. Beyond the walls, the Frostbacks rose dramatically against the blue sky, icefields glinting in the sun. Fall had been late coming this year, but the leaves were finally starting to change on the trees in the courtyard and the air felt slightly cooler, a whispered promise of winter. It would be a good day to travel.

She stowed the last of her gear, then led Buddy from the paddock toward the portcullis where Leliana was waiting, along with Sera, Bull, and Krem. As she approached, she realized with a strange drop in her stomach that she had never ridden out of Skyhold by herself before. As Inquisitor, she’d always been accompanied by at least one of her companions, if not a small force, and usually an assembly of those on duty had gathered at the gate to wish her safe travels. As eager as she was to be off, she suddenly felt uneasy.

No one said anything as she stopped Buddy by the gate, and in the stillness the moment seemed weighted, heavy with words unspoken. She felt a sudden wave of protective tenderness for these people, her friends, who had been through so much together. 

“Thank you for coming out here. Thank you for continuing to fight. And...and for standing by me. There is so much to do... and we’ll do it...” She made a face and trailed off, unsure of how to continue without making her disjointed speech even worse. The headache wasn’t helping.

Iron Bull gave her a thumbs up from where he leaned against the archway. “Great speech, Boss. One for the ages.”

“I think I’ll ask Maryden to turn it into a song,” Krem quipped.

“Ooh, that’d be good,” said Sera, giggling. “It can replace the one about me.”

“_Fenedhis lasa_.” Nepenthe smiled wryly and rolled her eyes, a weight lifting off her shoulders at the return to their usual easy camaraderie, forged on the battlefield and tempered over pints of ale. “Okay, so I’m bad at goodbyes, you lot of ingrates. Just pretend I made a great speech and everyone was very moved.” 

Sera walked over to stand in front of Nepenthe, her hands on her hips. “Look you, it’s just us, yeah? You don’t need to get all blah-dy blah speechy. And also, this isn’t goodbye.” She narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger. “So, you be careful. If anything happens to you, I’ll kill you myself, got it?” 

“That’s not…” Nepenthe began, then shook her head. “Got it.”

“Good. So long as we’re clear.” Sera hesitated a moment then wrapped her arms around Nepenthe, pulling her in and tightening her hold before quickly releasing her and stepping away. “Ok, go do elfy shit and save the world.”

Nepenthe snorted and swung into the saddle, thankful that the stirrups made it easier, and started to arrange the loops of the reins onto her left arm. “Oh, wait. Leliana, here.” She fished in her saddle bag then tossed a small leather pouch to Leliana who caught it easily in one hand. “Keep Dorian’s messaging crystal. If he gets in touch from Tevinter with anything important, you can do more here than I can on the road.” 

Leliana inclined her head. “If you’re sure.”

“Ah… also, we came up with phrases to say to each other so that we know it’s safe to talk - that no one is listening in or coercing us.” She paused, looking around. “It’s... _Vivant tuae clunes perfectae._” She glanced at Krem to see if he understood, but he was merely mouthing the words, a look of intense concentration on his face. 

Leliana repeated the phrase with narrowed eyes, then crossed her arms. “Do I want to know what that means?”

Nepenthe shrugged. “Probably not, we came up with it after a few drinks. Though,” she added smiling, “I do wish I could be there when Dorian realizes it’s you.”

Leliana rolled her eyes and tucked the pouch into her pocket. “May good fortune watch over your travels,” she sighed.

Nepenthe nodded her thanks and finished adjusting the reins, then turned to look at her companions. “You all know this, but we're working blind here. Stay safe and stay alert.” 

“We got it covered, Boss,” rumbled Iron Bull, “Go find us something to stop this shit.”

Nepenthe glanced briefly upward, wondering if they would see the Veil as it fell. Would it look like the breach, a splitting of the sky, or would it explode, or would it happen in some horrible way she couldn’t yet imagine? She clenched her teeth together. “Will do. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.” 

She turned Buddy and coaxed him into a trot with a press of her heels, riding across the bridge and towards the mountain pass without looking back. 

* * *

The sun was just beginning to set when she found a place to camp for the night. The day had been warmer than she expected, and between her armor and wearing the hood of her cloak up to disguise her identity, she was hot, sweaty, and in desperate need of rinsing off. 

The area she chose was a few minutes ride off of the main road, a wooded stretch along a small river. She dismounted, wincing slightly at the stiffness in her legs, and began the long process of unloading Buddy and setting up camp. She tended to her horse first, removing the saddle and cleaning his hooves before switching the bridle for a simple halter that would allow him to graze freely. She fished a rope out of her pack and tied one end to the bridle and the other to a tree, using her teeth to help tighten the knots and feeling slightly disgusted at the variety of things she now put in her mouth to accomplish daily tasks. 

Through the canopy of the trees, the clouds were shot through with oranges and purples as the sun sank lower. Rain seemed unlikely, but she rigged up a low rope and threw a tarp over it anyway, staking down the corners and placing her bedroll underneath. In the fading light, she walked in a widening arc, looking for signs of animal trails where she could set snares. A few minutes away from camp, she spotted what she was searching for - a small path which ran straight for a few meters, then disappeared into dense brush. 

Nepenthe focused, feeling the magic of the world gather around her. She had always sensed magic as a kind of connective tissue linking all things, like invisible threads that could be pulled and spun and woven, much like the yarn that she had grown up making. She pulled with her Fade hand, gathering and twisting the gossamer strands of magic into a series of small, imperceptible loops. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the snares out along the path, suspended a few inches off the ground. 

She remembered the first time she had done this when traveling with Solas. He had crouched down to examine her work, asking questions about how she created the loops, and how they were triggered to constrict, and how she ensured they stayed set for the night. Like with everything now, she wondered if he had actually been impressed and curious, or if it had just been a ruse, a way to connect with her and remain by her side without suspicion.

_ You show remarkable ingenuity in how you use magic. I did not expect to see such competence. _

Her cheeks burned remembering how she had flushed with pride at his praise. And how she had ignored the subtle dig at her training and her people, because he’d looked at her with his serious gray eyes and given her a kernel of attention. She rubbed her eyes roughly with the back of her hand, and turned back in the direction of her camp, ready to finally strip out of her traveling clothes and rinse off. 

She grabbed a small bar of soap and a cloth from her pack and stripped bare by the bank of the river, her skin pebbling in the chill of the evening. The moon was already high in the sky, casting shadows that shifted across the forest floor as branches swayed in the breeze. It was bright enough that she didn’t even need to craft magelights to see. The footing was rocky at the edge of the stream and the current fast, so she only stepped in enough for the freezing water to reach her shins. It nearly made her feet numb, but water had always been her element, and she found the sensation grounding. She imagined that her legs were roots, binding her to the earth, pulling strength from the power of the river.

She dipped her cloth in the water and wiped her face and neck, working from the top of her body down, as her mother had taught her. She cleaned over the firm muscles in her arms, under her small breasts, across the flat plane of her stomach. Economical, she thought with detached objectivity, her body was economical - everything packed into its meager allotted space, with no resources for soft excess. How very Dalish of her. It occurred to her as she washed without worrying about modesty, that she hadn’t been alone in the woods in over four years. She used to do it frequently, when traveling on clan business, or to satisfy her own curiosity. This time it felt different, more uncertain without knowing where to call home anymore. Or perhaps this was home now - wandering through the dark, alone.

After she finished bathing and had dried herself off, she lay on her side in her bedroll, arm throbbing, listening to the soft noises of the night - crickets chirping, bullfrogs thrumming in the distance, small animals rustling through the leaves. The thought of so much life carrying on, unaware, as people waged wars and grasped for power filled her with a strange mix of hope and despondency. Life was still unfurling inevitably, heedlessly, as she had battled demons and closed rifts to another plane of the world. Or, used to close rifts, she thought ruefully. She rubbed her stump, grateful that there had been no new reports of rifts at least. She had seemingly closed the last of them a couple months before she lost both the mark and her hand. Good timing there, anyway.

She frowned. A vague unease flickered at the edge of her mind. Had it simply been good timing? Shortly after she had closed all the rifts, Solas had led her directly to him and told her everything - who he truly was, his plans for the Veil, that the orb had been his. The same orb that created the mark... the mark that could affect the Veil... She was missing something. She sighed her frustration, rolling onto her back and studying the fabric of the tarp, as if the answer could be found there if she looked hard enough. It had all been his magic - the orb, the mark, the Veil - they were all somehow connected to his magic. 

A horrible suspicion rolled through her. What if Solas hadn’t removed her hand to save her? What if he had done it to take the mark from her?

Her thoughts raced, trying to remember exactly what had happened in those final moments. The mark had been flaring and then he curled his fingers, a flash of green appearing in his fist at the same time the mark disappeared. Had he seemed different afterwards? She couldn’t recall, he’d left so quickly. 

It was the last piece of his magic that hadn't been destroyed with the orb, and it was obviously important for his plans. 

_ I would have entered the Fade, using the mark you now bear, then I would have torn down the Veil. _

She was never supposed to wield it, and he had taken it back, in some form, without her suspecting a thing. But he took it _ after _ she had sealed all the rifts. Why? 

A dark thought surfaced, and she wondered if he had made the mark flare. It had been stable for years, then it had suddenly started discharging when she was in the Crossroads and rapidly deteriorated. Had he intentionally hurt her, so that she would not question his need to remove the mark? Had all of it been planned? She closed her eyes and rolled onto her side, hugging her knees to her chest. 

_ Vhenan, ar lath ma. _Words whispered into her ear in a stolen moment, as he pressed her against the doorway of the rotunda, their fingers clasped together, the intensity of his gaze making her pulse race. 

The pain written across his features, the tenderness in his touch as he knelt beside her, touching their foreheads together when he removed the mark. _ My love, we are running out of time. _

The beating of her heart thundered in her ears and her chest constricted. Maybe he did love her, in his own way, and his grief and regret were real. Maybe that made it worse, knowing it was love that led him to choose deception over the truth. A kindness that had cut them both to the marrow. 

She closed her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks and soaking into the cloth of her pillow. In the dark solitude of her tent, short choking sobs racked her body, and she bit the pad of her thumb to keep from screaming. 

When she finally slept that night, she dreamt of a wasteland - cracked scales of sand stretching in all directions, flaking like skin. Above her, the sky split open, black tendrils pushing through and stretching out like veins along the curve of the sky. The split grew, a dark substance pouring through and stretching down towards the earth in an impossibly large column. When the darkness touched the sand in the distance, she saw a cloud of dust rise, and the ground beneath her feet began to tremble. The blackness spread with incredible speed, devouring hills and rocks and dirt. The ground heaved under her feet, but there was no sound, like it had been sucked away with everything else.

She should run, but she found herself unable to move, watching with a strange detachment. The void was only feet away from her now, consuming the last edges of her world. She looked beyond her small island of sand and saw...nothing. No light, no depth - the darkness could have been infinite or only inches from her face. It reached her feet and she started to fall... 

And awoke alone, pulse racing, in the predawn light of another day.

* * *

A week had passed since she set out from Skyhold, and finally there was a rabbit in one of the snares, it’s fur matted and damp from the rain. Her supply of dried meat and apples was gone, and besides the two times she’d found wild strawberries, she’d mostly been eating waybiscuits. Several deer had crossed her path, but she hadn’t considered killing one - so much of the animal would have gone to waste, it wasn’t worth it for a single meal. She remembered her father, explaining in his patient way how to clean and dress a deer to get the most material - how to place the blade, how hard to press, how to give thanks to Andruil for the kill.

_We receive these gifts of the hunt._   
_We thank you for the sacrifice of your children._   
_ We know that our passing shall nourish them in turn.  
That is your way._

Looking down at the rabbit, the prayer stuck like a stone in her throat. Andruil, goddess of the hunt, who once represented her clan’s very survival. Andruil, who in truth had gone mad, hunting her own people with terrible weapons she’d forged from the darkness of the Void itself. Her devotees had prayed for mercy to a goddess who was howling into the abyss. How did history get it so wrong?

Sighing, she bent down and grasped the hare, flicking her transparent fingers to dissolve the noose. Gripping the rabbit meant that she could no longer hold her cloak closed and as she walked back to camp, the driving rain quickly soaked under her leather breastplate, a rivulet running between her breasts and making her shiver. It had been raining for days, slowing her progress, but she had finally skirted around Redcliffe Village and she was thankful her route had kept her from encountering anyone else.

She ducked under the tarp she had rigged up last night and crouched in the mud, laying the rabbit across a log. With a gesture of her fingers, a nearby pile of sodden sticks burst into flame, crackling and smoking as the wet wood caught fire. She swept her Fade hand up her body, drawing some warmth to take the chill out of her sodden clothes, but not enough to actually dry them. She’d never been great with the fire side of elemental magic and worried that if she tried for more, she’d be just as likely to immolate herself. With some difficulty, and a lot of cursing, she prepared the rabbit for roasting, then settled it onto the spit rigged over the cooking fire. She wiped the blood off her hand in the wet grass. From his tether nearby, Buddy stamped his hoof and attempted to shake his dripping forelock out of his eyes.

“Sorry Bud, it’s miserable out here.” She crossed to him, pushing his mane out of his face while he nosed at her chest. “Maybe we stay at an inn tonight? I get an actual bed, you get a dry stable? One of Leliana’s checkpoints is near here... She’d probably appreciate a message, too.” Nepenthe rubbed the horse’s forehead as his breath made clouds in the damp air. “What do you think we should say? ‘Trip going really well. Found lots of mud. Whereabouts of the anchor-stealing elf-god are still unknown. We’re all fucked.’” Buddy snorted and pulled at his harness. She sighed, “You’re right, probably too fatalistic.” She patted him on the neck and turned back to tend the fire as it hissed and sizzled in the rain, missing the comforts of home and friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vivant tuae clunes perfectae = Long live your perfect ass  
I couldn’t find enough canon Tevinter language to do much with, so this is just Latin. 
> 
> Fenedhis lasa = Literally, “go fuck a wolf’s dick” but used more as an expression of exasperation like “you cocksucker”  
Vhenan, ar lath ma = My heart, I love you.
> 
> And finally, idiot conversations with myself  
My Brain: Are you planning on taking up backcountry horseback riding, or something?  
Me: Is this about the researching time again?  
My Brain: If by researching, you mean watching horse videos, then yes.  
Me: ...accuracy...  
My Brain: Have you seen the length of your outline? Do you think maybe you should spend more time, you know, actually writing?  
Me: …does writing silly phrases in Latin count?  
My Brain: No.  
Me: Ehhh, I think it does.


	3. Over the River

The road to the village of Southfording ran along a small river and then crossed an ancient stone bridge covered in mosses and climbing ivy. As she rode past livestock fields and farm cottages that suddenly materialized out of the fog, she could just make out a cluster of gray stone buildings in the center of the valley, smoke drifting over the slate roofs. Riding through this scene of pastoral life, she found it possible to imagine that the fighting between the Mages and Templars had never happened, that perhaps the Inquisition and the war against Corypheus had never happened. With that thought, she looked skyward. The scar of the breach was visible even through the thin layer of clouds, a constant reminder of what had almost destroyed them all. When she focused on the road again, she pulled Buddy up short in front of a wall that had been hidden from view as she rode into town, horrified by what she saw there. The stones had been smoothed over with plaster, and across it, painted with more care than skill, was an image of her sealing the breach against a horde of demons.

So much for pretending the war hadn’t reached here. 

She was depicted from the side, with her arm calmly outstretched and her hand raised, but there was no rendering of the magic from the anchor and so it looked like she was simply holding the demons back with the force of her will. Her face was painted in profile, her features stylized, but the shape of her ear was clearly visible. At least this artist wasn’t trying to make her more human, more acceptable as the savior of Thedas. She frowned at a pale yellow circle painted behind her head, trying to figure out what it was. A halo, she realized with annoyance. And there it was - the symbol that she was Not Like Other Elves. She was blessed by the Maker and therefore safe, respectable even.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” A deep voice startled her and she turned, instinctively hiding her Fade hand in her cloak, not wanting to reveal her power unless it became necessary. The man behind her was incredibly tall and solid, dressed in simple dark clothes, and apparently unarmed. She guessed he was probably in his late 30’s, given the lines around his dark blue eyes. He was looking at the painting and rubbing the black stubble of his beard with a hand the size of a bear’s paw. “My nephew painted that. He worked with the Inquisition.” 

“Did he? What’s his name?” she asked.

“Bennick Hartwell. He was an apprentice blacksmith. And an occasional painter,” he said, indicating the wall. Nepenthe thought back, trying to remember a semi-artistic blacksmith by that name who had worked for her and, with a small pang of guilt, found she could not. There had been so many new faces in the smithy over the years, and not all of them stayed at Skyhold. “He’s been working over in Roslare since the Inquisition disbanded,” the man continued, “but I don’t think he likes it as much.”

“And you? Did you prefer the Inquisition as well?” she asked, meeting his eyes as they drifted back to her face.

If he was surprised by the directness of her question, he didn’t show it, instead he spread his large hands wide. “_I _prefer whatever keeps the peace. War’s bad for business.” 

The corner of her mouth rose slightly in a half smile and she tipped her head, “Diplomatically said, Mister…”

“Wayland is my name. People call me Wyn though. I’m the new owner of the inn there, such as it is.” He gestured farther down the street towards a building that had the same weathered stone facade as the rest of the village and a rough wooden trough filled with water for horses placed against the wall. There was a carved sign hanging crookedly over the doorway, attached by only a single hinge, announcing it as The Swan Inn. Along the bottom edge, someone had carefully lettered _ Really Good Rooms _ in white paint. She thought that the addition was probably more hopeful marketing than reality, but the steps were neatly swept and the water in the trough looked fresh at least. 

Wyn looked up at her. “Will you be needing lodging, or are you traveling through?”

“I’d like a room. And I assume you have a stable as well?” she said, glancing around.

“That we do. I can get you settled now, if you like.” 

She realized then that he had no idea who she was, despite the tribute to her deeds and her approximate likeness appearing not ten feet behind them. She tried to imagine what she must look like to him - a woman hooded in a filthy traveling cloak, dirt smudged on her face, yet still attractive in the way that a steel blade is attractive, something unyielding and bright in the high planes of her face, the slash of her brows, the set of her charcoal eyes. But tediously real - solid, mortal, and mundane. She wondered if he would have been disappointed to learn how far short she fell of his nephew’s reverent depiction.

She dismounted carefully, grabbing her pack and using the motion as cover to roll down her sleeve and dissolve her Fade hand. If she had the opportunity to be anonymous, she planned to do so, and a glowing green hand tended to invite questions. She hitched Buddy to a post outside, figuring she could get him settled in the stables shortly. Inside, the inn was dark and it took a minute for her eyes to adjust. The walls and ceiling were made from panels of the same umber colored timber, and set at intervals around the room were heavy wooden tables with an assortment of mismatched chairs. On the far side of the room, a group of six people, all dressed in the casual garb of farmers or laborers, were having their midday meal at a large table scattered with dishes. After glancing up briefly as she entered, they resumed their conversation, loudly enough that she could overhear some of it.

“It’s good riddance, I say. Ferelden don’t need outsiders messing in our affairs,” said a man and several others muttered in agreement.

“You can’t deny that having the Inquisition here helped trade with Orlais,” said a second voice, a woman. “With them gone, I guarantee those poncy bastards will be back to overtaxing and underpaying for everything.”

“Pah, I say let them try it and they’ll see again what Ferelden is made of.” The statement was followed with a chorus of “Aye” and “That’s right.”

Nepenthe was well aware of the general Ferelden sentiment that the Inquisition had served its purpose, but their war with Orlais had barely been a generation ago. Some of the people in the room had probably fought in it, and still nothing was settled. She recalled the late nights she had spent agonizing over negotiations to bring the two countries together for the common good, but beyond the network of nobles and strings to pull for favors, did it amount to anything? Had anything really changed? The thought was disheartening.

She followed Wyn to the back of the room and stopped at an enormous bar, rows of pewter mugs neatly arranged on shelves behind it.

“How long will you be staying in Southfording?” Wyn asked as he edged his way behind the bar.

“Just for the night.”

“Five silvers then. And that includes food.”

The mention of food plus the smell of stew and warm bread that drifted across the room made her stomach rumble, and she realized she was starving. She reached into the bag on her waist, placing the coins into his huge outstretched palm, then pushed her hood back with her good hand. She watched his eyes flick from the tip of one ear to the other, briefly settle on her lips, and then meet her gaze again.

“Didn’t realize you were an elf,” he said quietly, his tone somewhere between surprise and accusation.

“Is this going to be a problem?” she asked, raising her chin and narrowing her eyes. If it was, she’d move on right now and save herself the hassle.

“Not with me,” he said with a tip of his head and a slight smile, his eyes traveling down her body.

She wondered if he had a motive beyond getting her into bed or if that was the sum of it. Plenty of humans fetishized elves into oversexed exotic harlots. Or perhaps his interest was just honest attraction and she had become suspicious and jaded. With reason, she thought. He was handsome though and she could smell the comforting scents of soap and warm barley on his linen shirt - maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to spend the last months of her life in blissful oblivion with her legs spread wide over his powerful hips. 

Until Solas brought down the Veil and reality as they knew it ended. 

The fantasy crumpled. She couldn’t even pretend that her life would ever be so simple, or that she would ever again have a place to just belong. 

“You want food now or would you rather get settled in?” he asked.

At that, her stomach rumbled audibly and she told him she’d like to eat. Wyn walked to a door next to the bar that presumably led to the kitchens, and spoke briefly to someone on the other side while Nepenthe dropped her pack and slid onto a stool. 

“Hope you like mutton stew,” said Wyn, returning to the bar.

“Oh, I’ll eat anything,” she responded, realizing belatedly how suggestive that sounded when he raised his eyebrows. A serving woman came in from the kitchen just then carrying the bowl of stew , sparing Nepenthe from further conversation in that vein. The young woman wore a close fitting cap that covered her hair and ears, and when she saw Nepenthe, the quick rhythm of her steps faltered momentarily, but she covered it by glancing at the floor and pretending she had merely tripped. 

Nepenthe looked over at her as she slid the bowl onto the counter and Wyn said, “Thanks Sarah.” The woman did not speak or make eye contact but nodded curtly, then quickly spun around to begin cleaning a nearby table, her back to the bar. Nepenthe thought there was something curious about her, but it was a feeling so subtle it was like a wisp of smoke, gone in an instant as Wyn asked what brought her to Southfording. 

Nepenthe turned back to him. “I’m researching the history of my people,” she lied. “I heard tales that there may have been elves in the Korcari Wilds many years ago. So I wanted to find out for myself if they were true. Have you heard stories from there? Anything about elves or ancient ruins?” She picked up the spoon and began eating - the stew was lukewarm but otherwise perfectly edible.

“About the Wilds, aye. Not pleasant either.” He began to spin a copper coin that had been left on the top of the bar, the rotation making a quiet metallic whir on the polished surface. “But nothing specifically about elves. The fellow who used to run this inn though, Emmett Bromley - he’d be the one to ask about the legends of that place.” The coin wobbled and he flicked it, timing it perfectly so that it sped up again and continued spinning. “Follow the main road out of town for a couple hours and it’ll take you right to his house. Big gardens around it, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you. I’ll do that,” she said and meant it. Behind her, the serving woman’s footsteps clicked across the floor as she quietly ducked through the kitchen door.

Wyn flicked the copper again but mistimed it and instead sent the coin sliding off the edge of the bar. Reflexively, Nepenthe grabbed for it with her nearest hand. Which was not there. She nearly fell off the stool as she overbalanced and the coin clinked and bounced across the floor. The sleeve of her shirt rode up, revealing the stump of her arm. 

If her wound had simply been covered in shiny pink scar tissue, it wouldn’t have been particularly noteworthy. As it was, the twining, inky streaks that wound up her arm from it’s blackened end clearly marked it as a magical injury, and signaled that she was a mage. She pulled herself back onto the stool, glancing toward the group on the other side of the room. They had obviously noticed the commotion, and her ears, and her arm too, given their expressions of mistrust and suspicion. So much for being inconspicuous. Her heart hammering, she re-adjusted her sleeve and tucked her arm across her lap. 

She tried to go back to simply eating her stew, but saw that Wyn was also looking at her warily. Apparently, being an elf was ok in his book, but being an apostate mage was not. She put the spoon down and ground her teeth together. Coming here had been a mistake. 

With a wave of self-loathing, she realized her position of power had made her complacent, and that she had actually come to expect different treatment. How had she forgotten the truth? That without her companions, without the trappings of the Inquisition, without the mark that made her the Herald of Andraste - people would go right back to treating her like every other elf, as if she were little better than a criminal or a wild animal. 

A chair scraped back, and she tensed, gathering threads of magic in her hand concealed under the bar. 

“Maybe best you move along,” called the large man who had stood up, his florid face scowling. “We don’t need any more trouble from mages or knife ears.”

Templar sympathizers and bigots then. She could say she was the Inquisitor, but even if they did believe her, which was unlikely, she didn’t want to - she shouldn’t have to be a magical messiah to be able to sit at a bar and eat cold stew in peace. She had hoped, so naively, that her actions as the Inquisitor might have changed minds, that _ something _ she had done or said would have mattered beyond defeating Corypheus and sealing the breach. 

She turned slowly toward the group, holding her hand up to show she was unarmed and not spellcasting.

“I want no trouble. As you can see, I’m just eating.” She was about to calmly continue, but something in their faces and their intolerance reminded her that it was probably a group of peasants not unlike these, fear-fueled and prejudiced, who had stormed her clan’s aravels, murdering innocent people and children. Had her clan been sitting down for a meal when the mob arrived? Had her mother been ladling soup into bowls, serving the children first, laughing with her sister over the steam of the cooking pot when she saw death approaching? A wave of white-hot anger overtook Nepenthe and bile churned in her stomach. Magic wound fast and tight around her hand and sent frost crystals sparking off her fingertips. 

A bottle flew at her head, and she ducked, letting it shatter against the wall. At the same time, Wyn grabbed her forearm above the amputation and a man pulled a dagger and ran at her from across the room. She snapped up a barrier, pushing the man back with a blast of energy. He hit the wall and fell, but was still conscious. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Wyn swung something towards her face, and she dodged, throwing all her weight backwards at the same time and pushing off the bar with her feet. Between his wild swing and her movement, his grip weakened and she wrenched out of his grasp. The stool toppled and she hit the floor on her side, quickly rolling under the edge of the bar. Breathing hard, she scanned the room - the rest of the peasants were either frozen to the spot or hiding under tables. “I’m going now,” she called out. “Just stay where you are.” 

Listening for Wyn, she grabbed her pack with her good hand and stood up cautiously, eyes darting around for signs of further attacks. When none came, she turned and backed toward the door, her Fade hand raised in warning. No one moved. 

Once outside, she sealed the doorway with an icewall, then quickly closed the door, so it wasn’t immediately obvious from the road that anything was amiss. It would take several hours for the wall to melt, but there was likely a back entrance. For a moment, she rested her hand on the rough wood of the door as she exhaled a shaky breath, then hurried to where Buddy was tethered, slipping the rope and mounting him. 

She pulled up her hood as she rode out of town at a trot, no faster, so that her pace wouldn't attract undue attention, grimly making her way towards the former innkeeper’s house before warnings about a violent elven apostate mage were able to spread beyond the town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooo, my anxiety has kicked in and I’m stressing about the pacing. I wanted to develop her character and the background of Ferelden politics etc, but in retrospect, I should have written it in a way to bring Abelas in sooner. He’s coming next chapter guys! Really!
> 
> (Updated Note 11/5 - I couldn't leave it alone and made edits to improve pacing. Nothing that really impacts the overall story though).


	4. At the Crossroads

Arriving outside Fen’Harel’s office, Abelas slipped into a familiar position of attentive rest - hands clasped loosely behind his back, feet apart, eyes focused straight ahead. His gaze rested on a small vine with pale green leaves that was growing out of a crack in the ancient stone wall. Another sign that life was returning to the Crossroads. 

Even though he knew that this space between worlds had collapsed with the creation of the Veil, it was a different thing to see it in person. Barren islands of floating rock hung overhead like broken teeth - sheer cliffs and jagged edges telling of their creation from destruction and death. Spirits pressed against the Veil - thin as gossamer, intangible as a dream, yet still a barrier between the Fade and the waking world that could not be breached. When he first arrived, he had walked slowly through a courtyard of cracked stone, his footsteps grinding over gravel from shattered masonry and dust from the very foundations of the world. In silent sorrow, he had reached out to brush his fingertips along the weathered bark of a dead tree and had been surprised to feel a pulse of life still running through it. Looking up, he had seen the branches were dotted with tiny, tightly curled pink buds. 

According to Fen’Harel, it had recently been much worse, but as he manipulated the Veil, plants and flowers had begun growing again. The vine had not been here a week ago.

Down the hallway, the door to the office was open and he could see Fen’Harel was still meeting with the woman who was head of logistics in the Crossroads - housing, food supply, division of labor and the like. Abelas couldn’t remember her name. Though, truthfully, he hadn’t made any effort to learn it in the first place. 

Since joining the Dread Wolf six months ago, he had deliberately kept to himself. Almost all of the elves here were new, little different than shemlen, and while he occasionally crossed paths with other Sentinels, they were usually dispersed across Thedas, overseeing the most important operations. He was used to being on his own though, having spent the greater part of the last two years living in solitude deep in the Arbor Wilds. 

During the interminable stretch of his time as Mythal’s high priest, he had sometimes looked down the endless days of his life and wondered if there would come a point when something would change. Or if he would continue to wake from uthenera each time the temple was breached, continue to watch the numbers of Sentinels dwindle, continue to guard the last memories of a dead civilization until the world ended or his duty claimed him.

When that change had come in the form of an elven woman and her companions and even his duty had been ripped from him, an aching emptiness had twined around his chest, burying dark roots in his heart. He lingered on, bound to the woods that had been home for so many eons, even as the other remaining servants of Mythal gradually left to explore the world beyond the forest borders. Eventually, Fen’Harel’s agents found him and convinced him to meet the Wolf. 

He had not expected to see the Elvhen mage he’d first encountered at Mythal’s temple, and it had taken him a minute to reconcile the man called Solas with the Fen’Harel he remembered. He’d looked different then, with long, reddish brown hair woven in loose braids, but Abelas’s memories were indistinct - he hadn’t seen the man more than a handful of times. While the Wolf and Mythal had been close, they typically conducted their affairs in their private residences, and only used Mythal’s temple for formal meetings. And once Abelas had taken his oaths to Mythal, he rarely left the temple, except for occasionally fighting in the field. 

In retrospect, it made perfect sense that a man known for strategic deception had found a way to infiltrate one of the most powerful organizations in Thedas without revealing his true identity. 

“I’m sure we can fix it.” The woman’s voice carried out of the office and Abelas wondered what had gone amiss. He could see Fen’Harel looking out of a window with his hands clasped behind his back - a habit Abelas already recognized as a sign that he was troubled and trying to project otherwise. It wasn’t just this meeting that was bothering him, though. He had been slightly off ever since returning from his intervention with the Qunari last month. Certainly, the Qunari gaining control of the eluvians had been an unexpected complication, but it seemed like more than that. His usual calm demeanor slipped more often into frustration and his plans were not crafted with his typical thoughtfulness. In fact, many new operations had been thrown together in such a rush that there had been numerous coordination issues and errors. Whether that was because Fen’Harel was distracted or because he was stepping up their timeline, Abelas could not say. Still, he wondered if that was the reason he had been summoned today - to salvage another mission that had gone astray.

“Report back next week,” said Fen’Harel, the sound of his voice pulling Abelas from his thoughts.

The woman came out of the doorway and nearly ran into him, her hands going up instinctively to stop herself from crashing into his chest. She stepped back a pace, looking up at him, her hands dropping slowly from his breastplate. 

“Excuse me,” she murmured, her eyes flitting over his broad shoulders and her lips curling into a slight smile as she angled her chin up. She was the kind of pretty that was noticeable only in its unoriginality, with long blond hair, delicate features, and bright green eyes. 

Abelas nodded curtly and looked away, turning his body to the side to indicate that she should pass. Thankfully, she did so without further conversation, only whispering, “_'ma serannas_” [thank you] as she swished by and glanced coyly at him over her shoulder.

By now, the attention he got from some women and men in Fen’Harel’s army was familiar, though no less uncomfortable. He was aware of the chatter about the Sentinels - how they moved, how much taller they were than modern elves, how skilled they must be after hundreds of years of experience. “You think he’s graceful when he fights, imagine how he fucks,” he’d overheard a woman say, perhaps intentionally loudly, and her companion had giggled, “Do you think he’s bigger everywhere?”

In truth, his sexual prowess had remained untested for so long, he imagined his performance would be somewhat of a disappointment to any partner. When he and the other servants of Mythal had awoken, it was to fight. Afterward, they would tend the wounded and bury their dead and scrub the blood from the tiles. They would inspect the temple for any damage or decay that threatened the structure and make what repairs they could. Sometimes, they would range out to see the changes in the world and gather news, though each time it felt as if their own history slipped further from their grasp. They would hunt and share meals, sometimes reminiscing, sometimes in silence. And then they would bathe in the river, layer their armor into place, set the wards, and slide back into uthenera. A life of duty.

He thought of the woman’s hands on his armor and tried to remember the last time someone had touched him without it. 

“Abelas, come in,” called Fen’Harel.

He stirred and turned into the room, the motion making the plates of his gilded armor clink together softly.

“You have been well, I hope?” asked Fen’Harel, looking up from where he leaned over an unrolled parchment on his desk. 

“I have been well,” Abelas replied, if one could consider this shadow existence ‘well’. “The enchantments on the temple in Tevinter were not overly complicated to dispel.” He didn’t add that he should have been the one sent in the first place and that the young Dalish mage he replaced had been alarmingly out of his depth. The job was done, and whatever artifacts Fen’Harel was searching for had not been there. 

“There is another matter I need your assistance with. I thought it was nothing, but it appears I may have been mistaken.” His eyes briefly scanned the parchment again. “In a recent exploration of the Fade, I found in the Korcari Wilds an Elvhen temple far removed from any of the simple Chasind tribesmen.The trees and weeds had not reclaimed the site nor did the Chasind dare to come and steal the trinkets still remaining. It was empty, long abandoned, but the world feared that they might return.”

“Feared that who might return?”

“The specifics were, regrettably, unclear.” 

“You think it is a temple for one of the Evanuris?” asked Abelas, frowning. 

“I cannot say for certain. Do you have any knowledge of a temple that existed there?”

Abelas thought, looking out an arched window at combat training exercises taking place in a distant courtyard. Some of the ancient temples of the Evanuris had been smaller and secret, known only to their most devout followers. In contrast, Mythal’s temple had been open to all - a place of knowledge, community, and justice. Even after all these years, he still felt the loss of it. He shook his head, “No. I have no recollection of such a place.” 

“Nor I. Though, that is perhaps unremarkable in itself. Still, I hear…” Fen’Harel paused. “I believe it would be prudent to investigate - there may yet be an artifact of value or Sentinels who should be dealt with while we know of their whereabouts.” 

There _ was _ wisdom in fighting Sentinels of other Evanuris while the Veil was still in place, Abelas thought. Once it fell, they would wake from uthenera at the disturbance and could become a threat if they went undetected long enough to begin gathering new followers. Or found the Evanuri they were bound to. Fen’Harel insisted that the Evanuris would be as weak as he had been upon waking and that he was now powerful enough to defeat them for good. Privately, Abelas suspected this was meant to reassure his forces and he worried it wasn’t entirely true. He also worried about the implications if it _ was _ entirely true. 

Fen’Harel sighed and turned his head to look out the window, his expression softening into one of sadness. “Or it is vacant, and I chase nothing but a feeling and a dream.”

Abelas wondered at the change in him. Perhaps the string of recent disappointments was weighing more heavily on him than expected. Or perhaps there was something to the speculations linking his past intimacy with the Inquisitor and his trip to the Darvaarad last month. 

“Will I be going on my own?” Abelas asked neutrally, hoping that would be the case.

“Yes.” Fen’Harel turned away from the window, his expression shifting back into impassivity. “I cannot spare forces from other projects, but you will also be able to travel with greater speed and more stealth than a group. The closest working eluvian I can find is several hours journey from the ruin on foot. Leave immediately and travel with all the speed you can.” Fen’Harel shifted his weight and clasped his hands behind his back again. “Be...alert for any other activity in the area.”

Abelas had been in the middle of nodding his assent, but he paused. “What kind of activity?”

Fen’Harel hesitated. “You may not be the only one who seeks the temple.”

Abelas waited for him to say more, and when Fen’Harel did not, he got the uneasy feeling that whatever this was about, he should proceed cautiously with this conversation. “Who else might I encounter?” he asked.

“Perhaps someone from the former Inquisition,” Fen’Harel said brusquely, biting off each word like it cost him dearly.

“Should I intercept them?” Abelas asked carefully. 

Fen’Harel began to pace, his jaw tightening. “No. Your primary mission is the temple and retrieving anything of value it contains. It would be advantageous to get there first and avoid any confrontation.”

“And if I am unable to do so?” Abelas pressed, suddenly missing his straightforward duty of protecting the Vir’Abelassan by simply eliminating any invaders. But he would do what was demanded of him, whatever it might entail, for the promise of mending the world.

Fen’Harel stopped and pressed his fists into his desk, hanging his head. “We must recover what was lost, even if the cost is high,” he said quietly, more to himself than Abelas. He shook his head slowly and looked up again. “If you must stop them, do not use lethal force. No casualties,” he said forcefully. “Go now. Depart as soon as you can.” He nodded, then turned around abruptly, and their meeting was over.

As Abelas made his way back to his tent on the outskirts of the castle grounds, he turned over the conversation in his mind. There was something Fen’Harel was hiding, perhaps several things. But did it matter, he wondered, if the end result was the same?

He still didn’t entirely understand how exactly Fen’Harel was going to tear down the Veil, but he imagined it had something to do with the artifacts that the Wolf was digging for in ancient ruins and tunnels across Thedas. Perhaps they were a way of amplifying his power or creating a rift to enter the Fade physically. 

He crossed a bridge that had recently been repaired, the mortar still bright and clean, and descended the steps on the other side, passing by a worn statue of a howling wolf. Someone had left an offering in a shallow wooden bowl by its feet. Apparently, the modern elves were revising their legends again, and finally praying to the only one of their gods who could still hear them, the one they hoped would save them. 

As he reached his tent and prepared to depart, he wondered if they realized what Fen’Harel’s success would truly mean for their world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve thought a lot about whether Abelas would think of Solas as Solas or as Fen’Harel. Ultimately, I went with Fen’Harel since that’s the name Abelas uses in the game, even though that was obviously done for REASONS. 
> 
> The section where Solas talks about the “Elvhen ruin far removed from any of the simple Chasind tribesmen” is like 90% pulled directly from his in-game dialogue (and in iambic pentameter - thank you Patrick Weekes) so I can’t take credit for that lovely bit of writing.


	5. Across the Meadow

In the end, she took her time riding towards the retired innkeeper’s homestead, stopping at a river to wash the worst of the grime from her face and neck now that the weather was somewhat clearer. Since no one had been injured in the fight, and she’d left town, she didn’t actually expect they’d bother chasing after her. She let Buddy set his own walking pace along the road, the altercation replaying in her mind. She knew she had handled it badly, and was glad that none of her friends, or especially her advisors, had been there to witness it. Not that they wouldn’t have had her back, but it was unsettling how she’d allowed something so… so _ commonplace _ to rattle her that much. She’d once thought that dragons and darkspawn would be the hardest things she’d face, but often the hearts of men held far darker demons. 

Hours later, the sun was setting as she approached a dwelling nestled in open meadows filled with tall yellow grasses and spikes of scarlet flowers that attracted the bees. In the distance, she could see the edge of the Korcari Wilds, a stretch of dead trees and bleached branches sticking up through fetid black mud like the bones of a vast, ancient corpse. 

Ahead of her, smoke curled from the large chimney of a modest wood cabin with a small stable on one end. The gardens surrounding it were extensive, as Wyn had mentioned they would be - laid out in neat, rectangular raised beds filled with a profusion of flowering plants and herbs. She recognized some of them - sage, spindleweed, bloodroot, woad - but there were many more she did not. When she reached the dwelling, she dismounted, looping Buddy’s reins around a fence post and drawing her cloak closer to hide her Fade hand. She was calm now, and determined to remain so, no matter _ what _ animosity this innkeeper might harbor.

She knocked on the door and heard a crash from inside, followed moments later by a woman’s voice yelling, “Just come in! This tonic is going to burn if I stop stirring it.”

Nepenthe opened the door and entered slowly. The cabin was dimly lit, but filled with the layered scents of wood smoke, warm earth, and the last blooms of summer. Drying herbs and flowers seemed to fill every available space - plants were tied to the rafters, and strung across the windows, and hung on racks positioned around the room. On the wall across from her, shelves ran from floor to ceiling, all filled with small glass vials and jars. Where the strip of light from the door hit them, they seemed to glow from within like jewels - forest green, amber gold, blood red. At the far end of the room was an enormous hearth with several cast iron pots suspended over a fire. Crouched in front, stirring the closest pot, was a thin woman in a simple dress and apron, her gray hair pulled back into a braid and wound around her head like a crown. 

“This lady has a temper,” she said, looking into the pot as she continued to stir. “If you don’t treat her _ just _ right, she’ll turn on you in an instant.” 

For a dizzying moment, Nepenthe thought the woman was speaking about her and couldn’t understand how news of the fight in the Swan Inn would have reached here first. She was about to explain herself, then realized the woman meant the mixture, and wasn’t sure how to respond.

The woman turned, still stirring, and raised her eyebrows. “What can I do for you?” she asked.

Nepenthe came further into the room. “I’m looking for Emmett Bromley. Does he live here?”

“He does, but he’s at a neighbor’s farm right now. I expect he’ll be back in an hour or so. What’s your business with him?” she asked directly.

“I’m interested in stories about the Wilds. I heard he was the one to ask.”

“Aye, he’ll tell you stories. He’ll talk your damn ear off if you let him,” she scoffed and rolled her eyes, but there was fondness in the gesture. “I’m Edda,” the woman said, squinting at Nepenthe before she turned back to the pot and scraped the sides. “Let me get this cooling and then I’ll make us tea and maybe I can help you.” 

Tea. It used to be just a warm beverage. Now, like everything, it was wrapped up in memory. She used to tease Solas about disliking tea, turning it into an ongoing joke between them. “I brought you tea, made extra strong, just the way you like it,” she’d say. The first few times he’d looked genuinely confused, responding, “I don’t care for tea,” as if she’d forgotten. She had laughed and handed him the cup of whiskey, replying with mock surprise, “Really? You’ve never mentioned that before, vhenan.” Later, when it became routine and she still pretended to bring him tea, he would just look at her with amused resignation and deadpan, “You know me so well.” 

But of course she hadn’t at all. What if that was the most true thing she knew about him - that he disliked tea?

Using a long metal hook, Edda picked up the pot by its handle, lifted it off the fire with a grunt, and slowly lowered it onto the stones at the edge of the hearth. “Hang up your cloak on the door,” she said over her shoulder, “and leave it open when you do, it’s too hot in here.”

It _ was _ hot in the small space. Nepenthe could feel sweat beading around her hairline and neck, and though she was especially loath to lose the anonymity the cloak provided, it felt good to take it off. She hung the cloak up as Edda had instructed, dissolving her Fade hand at the same time. She would be calm, she would get the info she needed, she would go find this blighted temple, and she would save the damn world again. 

When she turned around, the other woman was across the room in a kitchen of sorts, pulling ceramic mugs down from a shelf above a soapstone basin.

“Grab those jars over there please, the two of them in the middle,” Edda said in the tone of someone who was used to being obeyed, indicating a shelf on the other side of the kitchen. They were large glass jars, filled with dried herbs and flower petals, and Nepenthe complied, tucking one under her arm and grasping the other to her chest as she brought them both in one trip. She placed them awkwardly on the counter next to Edda, who looked at her, glancing over her ears and her empty sleeve. Nepenthe braced herself for a reaction, but none came. Edda simply turned back to her work, saying “Go sit dear, I’ll bring the tea over when it’s ready.”

She sat at a small wooden table, herbs drying above it as well, and watched Edda prepare the tea. There was something in her precise movements as she took pinches from both jars and put them in the tea strainer that reminded Nepenthe of her mother, and the way she had carefully weighed materials to achieve consistent colors in her yarn dyes. Her favorite color had been the pale green she created from nettles, the color of new growing leaves in spring, the color of her eyes. As a child, Nepenthe had carefully tended the fire to keep the water in the large dye pot from getting too hot or too cold, singing to herself as she fed small sticks into the flames. 

_We walk the sacred way of peace,_   
_Our gifts of hearth and home increase,_   
_So Sylaise grant protection unto our clan._   
_We grow your herbs and speak your name,_   
_ Please bless us with eternal flame,  
And always we will walk the Vir Atish'an._

The words and melody came back to her, along with a sadness that seeped around her and caught in her hair like smoke, a sadness inhaled with every breath, that settled into the cracks between times, binding years that had come before with years that would never be. She wondered what her mother would have said if she had lived long enough to learn that all their gods were false. Probably she would have come to endure it, as they did all things.

Edda placed the mug in front of Nepenthe and she wrapped her hand around it automatically, watching the transient patterns of the steam spiral into a beam of sunshine. Something felt off, and she realized she couldn’t put both hands around the cup, that comforting gesture from so many times before. The imbalanced feeling rapidly became so overwhelming it made her slightly nauseous.

She shifted uncomfortably and glanced up. Edda was sitting across the table, studying her intently with shrewd brown eyes, her thin lips pursed in thought. Her face smoothed when Nepenthe looked at her, and she started to reach across the table. Nepenthe abruptly sat back in her chair, moving her body out of reach, suspicion prickling along her spine.

Edda gracefully folded her hands together and looked calmly at Nepenthe. “The world has demanded a heavy price from you, my lady.” She said it without pity, simply stated as fact.

Nepenthe frowned. “You know who I am?”

“Took me a minute to realize it, but yes. During the height of the war, I was living in Redcliffe Village, working as a healer and training others. I saw you several times. Your coming was always a ray of hope to people in dark times. Your courage and strength were an inspiration.”

It was funny, Nepenthe thought, how she’d always loved stories but now she hated hearing her own. She had never felt like a ray of hope. _ All I did was keep going, _ she wanted to say. _ I just kept going to stay ahead of everything that would devour me if I ever stopped. _Instead, she simply replied, “Thank you. I’m...glad I was able to bring comfort.”

Trying to change the subject, she took a sip of her tea and gestured at the drying plants. “You’re a healer? Is that what all this is for?” 

“I mostly stay at home now, but I still make potions to sell. Ah, that reminds me, she’ll be cool enough to bottle now.”

Edda stood and crossed the room to the hearth, grabbing a small bottle off the shelf, and bent down by the cooling mixture. When she came back, the bottle was filled with a translucent liquid the color of dusky autumn roses. “This is one of my favorites,” she said, sitting down slowly.

“What does it do?” asked Nepenthe.

“It’s a powerful healing tonic, a ward against some nasty, dark things.” She held it up to the light from the window. “She takes a whole year to produce. The dogwood drops her petals in the earliest days of spring, vandal aria unfurls her velvet leaves to soak up the summer sunshine, and as the days draw close in autumn, prophet’s laurel sets her berries. A season for everything and everyone.”

“What does that make me, the witherstalk in winter?” Nepenthe mumbled, sounding more bitter than she intended. 

Edda studied her face. “How can I help you, my lady?” she asked softly.

Nepenthe cleared her throat, chastising herself for her self pity. “Have you lived here long enough to know the stories of the Wilds? If there’s elven ruins there?”

“Emmett and I grew up together near here. Didn’t get married ‘til last spring, but that’s another matter. I know the old stories - legends about the witches, and the Chasind mother whose grief over her murdered sons was so great it spread into a mist that still remains. I’m not sure how true the tales are, but it is a strange place nevertheless. Emmett used to venture quite far into the Wilds when he was a boy and thought that bravery was demonstrated by reckless actions. But something happened and he stopped going.”

“What happened?”

“He found a ruin. It probably was elven from his description of it - stone, a few stories high, with carved masonry and delicate arches. But he said it was a dark place - nothing grew near it, and that despite the stillness and his distance from it, he sensed that some malignant presence lay over it. He felt afraid just looking at it. And then he saw a figure appear in one of the doorways - as tall a man, shrouded in black, with an animal skull where the face should have been and antlers that hung with moss or... flesh. He said it moved like nothing he’d seen, melting into the shadows with a speed that seemed unnatural. As soon as it disappeared, he crept away. He’s not been back since.” Edda took a sip of her tea, and waved her hand dismissively. “Emmett really tells it much better than I do. But does that help at all?”

Nepenthe frowned, it could have been another temple, but whatever he saw didn’t sound quite like a Sentinel. “I think so. Did he say where it was exactly?” 

At that moment, they heard the sound of hoofbeats outside, and Buddy whinnied.

“No, but looks like you’ll be able to ask him yourself,” said Edda.

Shortly after, Emmett strode in through the open door with his hat in his hand. He was a slender man of about sixty, with short gray hair and a rosy complexion that could have been from the sun or from a love of ale.

“Emmett, this is Inquisitor Lavellan,” said Edda. “She came looking for stories about the Wilds. I’ve just finished telling her some, but you might be able to fill in more.”

Emmett studied her, confused. “The Inquisitor? Here? Are you with the other elf?” 

“No,” said Nepenthe, warily. “What other elf?”

“I passed a chap earlier today as he was heading into the Wilds not far from here. Tall fellow, on foot. We don’t get many travelers through here so it struck me as a little odd.”

Nepenthe frowned. This couldn’t be a coincidence. “What did he look like?”

“He wore a cloak, so I didn’t see his face or his ears, but he moved like an elf. You spend enough time watching people like I did, you get a sense for how they move.”

That wisp of a thought she’d had about the serving woman, Sarah, in the Swan Inn suddenly came back, solidified, and sank in her mind like a knife. That’s what had been strange about her - she moved like an elf - her gait, her quick motions. How had she not seen it before? Wearing a cap that covered her ears, averting her eyes, sliding around Nepenthe without speaking. Sarah had known _ exactly _ who she was. And she’d been right there cleaning the table when Nepenthe was asking Wyn about elven ruins in the Wilds. Which Sarah presumably reported to Solas, or someone working for him. Gods, there must be an eluvian hidden somewhere near that town. Nepenthe was furious - at him, at the reach of his network, at how he was specifically tracking _ her _ movements, at the consequences of her mistake. 

She clenched her jaw and forced herself to focus. Whatever was in the Wilds must be important enough to send someone here to intercept her. Or maybe even come himself, a small part of her whispered with a hope that she immediately despised herself for.

“How long ago did you see him?” she asked.

“It must have been about two hours ago now,” Emmett said, looking between Nepenthe and Edda in bewilderment.

Nepenthe looked out the window toward the Wilds, calculating. He had a sizable head start and the sun was setting, which meant she’d be tracking him in the dark. The mud would make it easier to follow him though and, if she was lucky, he might stop to make camp for the night, giving her a chance to catch up. “Shit,” she whispered. This was a very bad plan. She wished that Sera and Bull were here. And Dorian. Even though he’d complain incessantly about the mud, his outrage would be half-faked, purposely creating a welcome diversion for them all. “Do you know a man named Arlen, in Southfording?” she asked Edda, her attention snapping back. Edda nodded. “Can you get him a message from me? He’ll know what to do with it.”

“We can manage that,” said Edda. “My lady, I sense this is not welcome news. Your business is your own, but if there’s anything else we can do to help, you’ve only to ask.”

“Thank you,” she said rising from the table to grab her cloak from the door. “I have to go into the Wilds. Now.” Saying it out loud didn’t help. “Emmett,” she said, turning back to him, “Edda told me about the ruin you saw as a boy. Do you still remember where it is? I have a bad feeling that’s where I’m going.” If there was a more direct route, she could potentially close the distance without having to track him.

Emmett’s ruddy face went white. “That’s a place best left in stories. It’s not for me to question your duties, and I know you’ve probably seen worse, but I’ll admit I have no desire to help send you there.”

“Not my first choice either,” she said flatly. “But here I am.”

“Aye,” said Emmett, “here you are.” He scratched his chin, shaking his head. “I’ll tell you as you pack. You won’t be able to take your horse into the Wilds. Ground is too uneven - he’d break his leg in a hole before you got a mile. But you can leave him here, we’ll stable him until you’re back. No charge. We all owe you a debt.”

Ironically, his assumption that she _ would _ be coming back made her more anxious than when people warned her that only certain death lay ahead. It was always fun to prove them wrong. As for the terrain in the Wilds, she had assumed as much, but was still sorry to lose her only companion. She thanked Emmett and Edda, making a mental note to pay them when she could, and rushed outside to begin digging through the saddle bags.

Emmett explained how to find the temple, cautioning that his distances might be off, and Edda pressed a cloth containing waybiscuits and some kind of greenish-brown lumps resembling rocks into her hands. “Mudweed cakes,” explained Edda. “I wish I could say they taste better than they sound but... they’re full of nutrition anyway, and the sage improves the flavor a bit.”

“Thank you,” said Nepenthe gratefully and tucked the bundle into her pack. Food was food and she didn’t imagine there’d be much to forage in the Wilds.

She borrowed a quill and ink and quickly penned a note to Arlen, hoping it would reach Leliana safely. _ Nightingale - change of plans. We have company. Going in alone near Southfording_. She dated it, drew the rune that served as her signature, and handed the rolled note to Edda.

“Travel safely,” said Edda. “And my lady? That witherstalk in winter is not at the end of her journey. She’s holding her strength deep inside - protected from bitter winds, ready to bloom anew in her proper season.” 

Nepenthe clasped the woman’s arm and thanked her in a slightly choked voice, wishing she could retreat into the warm glow of their cottage, pull up a chair by the fire, and close the door against the encroaching dark.

Instead, she turned toward the spectral line of trees marking the boundary of the Wilds and rushed into the fading light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vir Atish'an = Way of Peace
> 
> I can’t believe how long I spent writing a prayer to Sylaise to match the cadence and rhyming of Halleujah. Seriously, go re-read it to double check so I feel validated. I want this accomplishment on my tombstone. (Whyyyy is this even a thing, you ask? [Wonder no longer](https://www.thefandomentals.com/sing-a-song-of-solas-hallelujah-and-dragon-age-inquisition/))


	6. Into the Wilds

As she crossed the meadow, she broke into a jog, setting a pace that she could sustain for miles. The pace she’d used for tracking game. The pace of a predator - relentless, measured, patient. She was glad to be running. Glad that she had kept up her training regimen around Skyhold. Glad to have a target, something concrete she could find and fight. 

She spotted his track easily as she loped along the trees that marked the border of the Korcari Wilds and turned to follow it. The depressions of his heels and the spacing of his footprints in the mud showed he was walking. Walking quickly, but still walking. Good - she might catch him before the ruins. She settled into the swift rhythm of the hunt, her focus narrowing to only this task. She scanned ahead for signs of his path as she wove between trees and ducked under branches, the pounding of her feet along the damp ground, the beating of her heart, and the rush of her breath marking out the pulse of her pursuit.

She recalled Emmett’s instructions, but the tracks were already heading in the same direction. There would be no chance to save time that way. And so she ran. She ran and she did not slow down until her path was only illuminated by the nearly full moon and the terrain began to change. Dark pools smothered with pale algae obscured the track of the other elf and she nearly lost it several times. There were some spots where he seemed to have walked right over the water, his steps disappearing near the edge of a pool and reappearing on the other side, while she was forced to go around. The pools were deep, as she discovered by pushing a branch into one - he was not wading through them. Maybe using a spell? If so, she did not know it. She stumbled over roots and lost her footing on ground that appeared solid and then gave way, plunging her feet into cold, black water. She was losing ground and he was too far ahead.

“Fenedhis!” she swore as she tripped and fell hard, her hand sinking elbow deep into loose mud and her pack hitting her in the back of the head. “Void take this vishante kaffas place!” Shaking with adrenaline, she struggled to her feet and sent a blast of ice at the puddle. 

The mud, and a wide area around it, instantly froze into strange sculptural forms with crystals of ice pushing their way through the frozen earth. Wiping her hand on her cloak, she took a tentative step forward, pushing the edge of the puddle with her toe. It was solid. She put her whole weight onto it, and still it held. Walking to the edge of the frozen area, she gathered more threads of magic, drawing them to her until her arm buzzed with power. She calculated the spell in her mind and crouched down with her translucent fingertips just grazing the ground. A frozen path flowed out and away from her, the mud crackling and snapping as it solidified. She stood up, smiling, and took a swig from her water flask. _ This _ would save time. And would also have been damned helpful in the Fallow Mire, she thought.

The hunt took on a new rhythm, as she paused to create these frozen paths, then sprinted along them, her breath coming hard and fast. Whatever was at this temple, she was not letting Solas get it. Mile after mile, she ran. Branches caught her hair and snagged her pack. Hanging moss brushed her face and the back of her neck, making her twitch and swipe furiously at it. In the pale light, the twisted forms of skeletal branches started to resemble antlers and the shadows became shrouded forms with hollow eyes. Distant, unidentifiable sounds made her jump and search the darkness for signs of movement, her heart a wild thing in her chest. 

She came to the shores of a misty lake choked with reeds. The ground was more solid here, his trail harder to see, and she lost it completely along a stretch of open, rocky shoreline. She stopped and doubled back, crouched over, her eyes frantically scanning the ground. There must be some sign she missed, some footprint or broken branch or _ something _ to signal where he had gone. Out of the corner of her eye, a shadow moved. Before she could even turn her head or put up a barrier, she was caught in a binding spell so powerful it nearly lifted her off her feet. Her arms were pulled behind her back, her chin forced up. Blood roared in her ears as her breath came in short panicked bursts. Her eyes, the only part of her that could still move, flashed over the shadowy forest.

“You are following me,” said a deep voice over her shoulder, resonant and faintly accented, and a chill ran down her spine.

“I’m not following anyone,” she gasped reflexively, her mind spinning. She scanned desperately for a seam in the net of the barrier, something she could wedge a spell into and throw it off. Nothing. There was nothing. It was solid as glass. Her heart pounded. She could always, _ always_, find a weakness. The knot of fear in her stomach tightened. Emmett was wrong. This wasn’t an elf but a powerful magister. This had been stupid, so stupid. She was going to die alone in the mud, and no one would even know where her body lay.

“I see. A coincidence then,” he said, his tone disinterested.

She tried to remember her training. 

Buy time, she told herself. He’s powerful, but still mortal. Probably. “I’m collecting putrid mud,” she choked out, panting. “It’s considered an aphrodisiac in Orlais, you know.” She pulled for her magic. Nothing happened. She pulled harder, grimacing. Still nothing. “It fetches a great price on the black market,” she growled through clenched teeth.

There was a rustle of fabric and a clink of armor behind her as he shifted, his shadowy figure just beyond where she could see.

He sighed, and she felt his breath on her ear. “I know you,” he said, sounding more resigned than threatening. 

“Oh yeah? You know a lot of black market mud dealers, do you?” she grunted in frustration as she tried to wrench her body out of the hold.

“You wore the vallaslin of Sylaise when we last met.” 

She stilled. “Come where I can see you.”

He moved like a whisper and she followed him with her eyes, unable to see much of his face under his dark hood. He stood in front of her and even suspended on her toes with her neck stretched out, she had to look up to him. His hood shadowed everything above his nose, but he had full lips set in an angular chin and a clean shaven face, his skin pale and smooth in the moonlight. Definitely not a magister.

“Take off your hood,” she commanded and was faintly surprised when he complied, pushing it back in one smooth movement, his long fingers sliding along the dark fabric.

Her eyes roamed over the silver white braid that flowed down over one shoulder and the branching vallaslin of Mythal glowing faintly on his brow before meeting his golden eyes. 

“Abelas,” his name a sad song on her lips. He looked well and she was momentarily glad he had survived since the temple of Mythal, before the feeling twisted to shame and grief. She had destroyed his whole life, taken the Vir’Abelasan, and now it had gone silent, locked away with Morrigan, useless and depleted. Centuries upon centuries of knowledge that her actions had ruined. Even as she told herself it had been necessary, she felt her cheeks start to flush. 

“You’re working for him.” It was not a question and he did not deny it. She swallowed and continued in a voice that she hoped sounded confident, the voice she used for commands and judgements. “We parted on peaceful terms before. Our aims may be at odds now, but I have no wish to fight you.” 

He tipped his head to the side, asking in a slightly incredulous tone, “You think fighting me is an option in your current position?”

She exhaled through her nose and ground her teeth. Damn him. “Then what happens now?” she asked, annoyed, in a voice that sounded very much like herself.

“I leave you here, bound, complete my task, and release you when it is done.”

“You can’t just leave me here! What if you don’t come back? What if there’s swamp crabs, or…” She trailed off, realization dawning. “You’re not supposed to kill me,” she said slowly. “But you were also not expecting _ me _, specifically. I’m pretty sure your boss knew I’d be here though. Which means he’s not telling you everything. What a surprise - the trickster god isn’t being honest.” 

His expression darkened and he stepped back a pace, and she wasn’t sure if she should be glad or ashamed that her barb had found its mark. “This is the way it must be,” he said. “I will return to free you.”

She called after him as he started to walk away, “At least put a barrier around me!” and he paused, turning to look over his shoulder as he reached the edges of the forest. But instead of putting up a barrier, he hesitated a moment then asked, “Did you drink from the Vir’Abelasan? I cannot tell.”

“Release me and I’ll tell you,” she bargained.

He shrugged and turned away again. “It does not matter. It is lost, like everything else.”

“Wait.” Her guilt boiled inside her and she felt she owed him an answer, if nothing else. “I didn’t drink. Morrigan did - the witch.”

He was back in front of her in an instant. “You let a shem drink from our well?”

“Oh, now it’s _ our _ well? I thought I was one of those ‘shadows wearing vallaslin’ not one of _ your _ people.” The specific phrases he’d used at the temple of Mythal came back to her easily - she had often heard them echoing in her mind, another reminder of her shortcomings. “It’s not like anyone else was volunteering. Solas refused. You _ left_. You could have stayed and drunk from the well and helped defeat Corypheus. But no - like with everything, when it came down to it, I was on my own. I had to make a decision based on hints and half truths and whispers of a history that no one thought to fully explain to me.” She was outright yelling at this point, as she recalled the events of Wycome and the temple of Mythal and the countless other decisions she’d been forced to make around the war table.

She took a deep breath. It was not Abelas’s fault, and blaming him now wouldn’t solve anything. “Abelas,” she continued more calmly, “if there had been another way… Maybe I made the wrong decision, but it needed to be made. We couldn’t have defeated Corypheus without the well.” She paused, then finished bitterly, “Either way, it doesn’t matter now - it went silent.”

Abelas had regarded her stoically through her outburst, but now he looked at her curiously. “What do you mean it went silent?”

“The voices stopped talking to Morrigan. She said it was like...they were all calling out at once and then they were cut off. They’ve been silent ever since then, more than two years now. It happened not long after we met Asha'bellanar. Or Mythal. However that worked.”

He stepped closer to her, searching her face. “_You _ met Mythal?” His voice deep and suspicious.

Her breath puffed into the air between them. “Technically her spirit, but she still spoke to me through Asha'bellanar.”

“You lie,” he hissed.

“I’ve only _ ever _ been honest with you, Abelas. You still think I’m not worthy? That I’m so far fallen no god would speak to me?”

“Why would she come to you when she never came to her own people, her own Sentinels?” 

She dropped her eyes. How many times was she going to destroy the foundations of this man’s life? “You didn’t know,” she said flatly. “And Solas never told you, did he?” She glanced up to see a look she knew well cross his features - an unwillingness to believe a betrayal, a seed of doubt planted nonetheless. She should have felt triumphant, vindicated, but those feelings did not come. “He neglected to tell me they were old friends,” she continued drily. “I assume they had some plan together.” She waited for his response, watching him think. “It’s the truth, Abelas.”

“The truth can be many things depending on who is doing the telling.”

He seemed unaware of the irony of his words to someone who had walked the line of being a figurehead for a religion she did not believe in without converting _ or _ losing the support of the non-Andrastian factions. Erasing enough of herself to be a blank slate, something for everyone to write their own beliefs upon. “Yes, well… that’s as much of this truth as I know. I’m sure you know better than I do though who you’re working for and what he’s capable of,” she said sourly. Behind her back, her arms were starting to go numb, her neck hurt from being stretched, and she was tired of deceptions. “Now, let me go!” she snapped.

His eyes flashed angrily as he raised his finger toward her face, about to retort when figures suddenly materialized out of the darkness, surrounding them. Shrouded in black, masked with skulls and antlers. Over his shoulder, she could see several of the figures held enormous bows, arrows drawn and aimed at their heads.

_ “Andruil rajen druren.”_ [Andruil demands your sacrifice]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asha'bellanar - Woman of many years - what the Dalish call Flemeth


	7. At the Temple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To save my sanity, and also for the sake of readability, all the conversation in italics is actually in ancient Elvhen.  


Abelas froze when the figures appeared, unable to believe at first that he had been so focused on the… Inquisitor, he’d missed their approach. An uncharacteristic lapse. He scanned the area, counting seven of them that he could see and probably as many more behind him - too many to even put up a barrier before their arrows found their mark. Metal armor glinted under their black shrouds and he recognized the bows as ornately worked Elvhen craftsmanship. Sentinels of Andruil, he realized with a sinking heart - he would find no mercy here. 

“If you value your life, do not speak,” he whispered.

“Let me go, or I will,” she hissed through clenched teeth, but her focus was over his shoulder and he could see she was afraid. He felt a pang of regret that he had made her so vulnerable, unable to defend herself - a terrifying position for any warrior. But releasing her now would only look like a provocation, so despite her threat he left her bound, his mind racing. He sensed that Fen’Harel’s warning of _ no casualties _ extended to circumstances beyond Abelas’s hand, and he knew enough of the man’s grief to be afraid of it. 

He focused now, alert to every sound and shift in the figures around him, as a half-formed plan developed. 

_“I come as an ally with a proposition,”_ he said slowly in Elvhen. 

_ “We have nothing to say to a servant of Mythal,”_ said one of the Sentinels standing to Abelas’s right, the voice strangely broken and rasping. _ “Your death would please The Huntress._” 

He turned his head cautiously toward the Sentinel who had spoken. Her face was covered by a deer skull, its eye sockets scraped and enlarged for visibility. _ “I offer more challenging prey. A quarry befitting a goddess.” _ He glanced back at the Inquisitor, who was watching him warily, a muscle twitching in her jaw. He wondered how much of the conversation she understood - the Dalish bastardization of the Elvhen dialect he’d heard spoken at the Crossroads camp was so far removed from the original as to be nearly its own language. But she would certainly recognize the next name. 

_ “I will give you Fen’Harel.” _

To her credit, she didn’t react.

The Sentinels laughed, a discordant, sibilant sound that made his skin crawl. The same figure responded, _ “You think to trick us? Why would a servant of Mythal turn on her pet dog?” _

_ “In the end, he betrayed her, too.” _

_ “Mythal was killed long ago. What do you speak of?” _asked the Sentinel.

_ “Her spirit remained and her voice. He has taken both. I want vengeance.” _He had thought about what the Inquisitor had said, and pieces of an untold story were falling into place. Mythal appearing in a human body, Fen’Harel becoming much more powerful than when he first saw him, the Vir’Abelasan going silent. The Inquisitor's words - _I assume they had some plan together._ If Mythal’s spirit had passed to Fen’Harel, he would control the well, and would no doubt wish to deny its wisdom to a human witch. But was it betrayal? Mythal must have agreed, otherwise her spirit would have twisted into a demon if Fen’Harel had taken it by force. Still, their secrecy burned as did the revelation that Mythal’s spirit had yet endured. A painful knot to be untangled later.

As the Sentinels surrounding them shifted and whispered to each other, The Inquisitor's eyes found his and she started to open her mouth. He shot her a warning look and she swallowed, immediately schooling her features back into a mask of loathing. He knew he was walking close enough to the edge of their previous conversation that she may well worry about his true motives.

_ “Then why seek us? Surely your own companions would wish to avenge their goddess?” _ The Sentinel spit the word _ goddess _ like a curse.

_ “We are broken. Scattered. I do not have the power to defeat him on my own. And so I seek your assistance.” _Please let this work, he thought fervently.

_ “And what of her?” _

_ “She is the bait for the trap.” _If it came to it, would he sacrifice her for his own life, he wondered. If he did so, would he survive Fen’Harel’s wrath? 

“Abelas, what are you telling them?” she asked in the common tongue, suspicion lacing her words.

A little mouse on the battlefield of dragons, he thought sadly. But Mythal had seen value in visiting that mouse... 

_ “Silence!” _ commanded the figure, stepping forward toward Abelas. _ “The High Priestess can decide what to do with you.” _

Before he could even respond, a shooting pain lanced through the side of his neck and he raised his hand to find a dart stuck there. He hastily plucked it out, the scent of citrus, vanilla, and something acidic filling the air - magebane. So many plants had gone extinct since the creation of the_ i've'an'aria_ [the Veil], but _that _ one had to survive. With the sensation of a heavy cloth being draped over his mind, his connection to magic was extinguished. He staggered, bent over, the empty, detached sensation leaving him disoriented. She called his name, concerned. 

As his magic drained away, the binding spell released and the Inquisitor fell forward onto the ground. She cried out in pain as her knees hit the rock below. He stopped himself from reaching out to her, instead turning the gesture into a dismissive wave. _“No need to waste a rare poison on this one. She’s a Shem, not a mage.” _ He hoped one of them could keep their powers at least. And that she didn’t use them to kill him the first chance she got. She looked sharply at him, her eyes narrowed, questioning. 

And then swift, strong hands grabbed him from behind and a cloth was pressed over his mouth, smelling of something foul, and the world faded to black.

* * *

There was something wet on her cheek. Something gritty and wet, pressing into the side of her face. Nepenthe opened her eyes. She was lying on her side facing a stone wall, faint torchlight flickering across it. The smell of something burnt and acrid hung in the air. Under her head, the floor looked like there had once been an intricate mosaic across it, but it was now mostly crumbled into debris. As she lifted her head, she realized the wetness was drool and that her tongue and lips were dry and parched. How long had she been out? 

She tried to sit up and found she could not - her arms had been pulled behind her and bound above the elbows. The pain followed her awareness, blooming across her shoulders and shooting to her elbows. The stump of her arm throbbed. By folding her knees up and shifting her weight forward, she was able to kneel, but the change in position left her feeling dizzy and slightly nauseous. Whatever had been in that cloth had been effective. 

She fuzzily turned toward the source of the light, a small barred window set into a wooden door, and rose unsteadily to her feet, gasping as the restraints dug into her arms. She was about to use a healing spell when Abelas’s words came back to her _\- _something about her not being a mage. So, hiding her powers was somehow part of his plan. Which had been… what? For the most part, they’d been speaking too quickly for her to understand much, but her language lessons with Solas had allowed her to pick up a word here and there. Something about betrayal and spirit and Fen’Harel and Mythal. And vengeance and her being bait, whatever that meant.

And where was Abelas now?

She limped towards the door, her knees still sore from the impact on the ground when the binding spell released. She was alive though, and may not have been if she’d been free and able to fight back, but she certainly wouldn’t admit that to him. The only thing visible through the window was another stone wall across the hallway. As she angled to get a better view, a grunt from behind her caused her to startle and drop painfully into a crouch. She peered into the darkness of the room. Just at the edge of the light, she could see a hand, the fingertips red and blistered.

“Abelas?” she whispered. There was no reply. She called his name again, louder, and watched cautiously as the fingers twitched and curled in response. The hand disappeared out of the light as he sat up, groaning, and looked around for the sound of her voice. 

“Get away from the door,” he said forcibly when he saw her. “There is a barrier on it.” 

“Is that what happened to your hand?” she asked as she quickly moved away. 

“Yes, but it is nothing,” he said, shifting until his back rested against the wall. 

“Why haven’t you healed it then? Where were your gauntlets? And why weren’t _ you _ bound?” 

“I _ was _ bound and this was through my gauntlet. The spell on the door had the unintended consequence of burning my restraints away. However, I do not recommend that method.” His face was shadowed but there was a hint of dry humor in his words that she found surprising. “I am unable to heal myself currently. Also, I must have passed out again after the door… incident.” He rubbed his face with his good hand. “Did they poison you as well?” he asked cautiously. 

“No, they just knocked me out. Your binding spell dissolved my Fade hand, so it wasn’t completely obvious I was a mage. I guess they didn’t think I was much of a threat, since I was just hanging in the- what’s that?” She broke off, noticing something smoldering by the door and the remains of what had once been a gauntlet flung several feet away.

“Gods,” she breathed, nudging his gauntlet with her toe and watching it disintegrate further. That's where the burnt smell was coming from, and the thing by the door must be the remains of the rope. “If they have spells that powerful, why didn’t they use them before? Why point arrows at us and bind us with rope and poison you?” She started walking along the side wall, scanning for anything that might be useful in the room. Probably too much to hope that their packs would be here as well.

He looked up at her curiously, then answered quietly, his voice vibrating in the small space. “They are Sentinels of Andruil. After… events between Mythal and Andruil, they started developing strange ideas about magic, despising those who used it as a form of combat and favoring the weapons of the hunt for themselves. Though, they seem to accept using magic for security.”

She stopped and stared at him raptly, the promise of the knowledge he had, the secrets of her history, as binding as any spell. His braid had come partially undone and strands of hair hung across his face, making him look softer and somehow more… accessible than before. She’d never really had the chance to know Solas as an ancient elf and for a moment she just studied him, struggling to grasp what it would be like to live for hundreds of years, watching the world you knew slip farther away. _ He’s still the enemy_, her mind whispered. Even if he had contrived a way to keep them alive and a way for her to keep her powers. 

She bit back the flood of questions that sprang to mind, trying to focus on one thing at a time. “Do you think it’s safe for me to do a healing spell?” 

“I believe so. I do not sense that we are being watched. I suspect they trust the barriers to keep us here while they wake their high priestess from uthenera.”

“Part of your plan?” she asked sarcastically, and then regretted it as his eyes hardened. It would probably be best not to antagonize someone she needed to work with to escape. She looked away. 

“I kept us from being killed instantly,” he said, far more petulantly than she would have expected from someone so ancient. 

“Why?” she asked. “What purpose does it serve keeping me alive?” 

His eyes searched hers, an unreadable expression on his face. “Those were my instructions.”

She sighed, his response eliciting a complicated twist of emotions. Too complicated to deal with in her current condition. She drew a healing spell through herself to ease the ache in her limbs and the pressure in her head and hopefully let her think more clearly. 

“So what now?” she asked, resuming her exploration of the room. “We wait around until the head scary wakes up and kills us?” Maybe she could disarm the door and find her way out... She rejected the idea as soon as it formed - too many unknowns.

“As long as they believe we are useful, we keep our lives. I do not know how much you understood, but I promised to deliver them Fen’Harel. If they continue to think I can do that, we survive long enough to find a way out.”

“And that plan hinges on me being bait for the trap? On them believing he would come for me? He wouldn’t, you know. If it came to it.”

“Whether he would or not is immaterial, it is the lie that matters.”

She abruptly faced away from him, pretending to inspect the ceiling, as unexpected tears gathered. It was always the lie that mattered. Lies and more lies.

“Tell me something real, Abelas. Anything,” she said toward the wall. “What happened between Mythal and Andruil? The reason her Sentinels distrust magic?” She turned around, red eyed and desperate.

“It is ancient history,” he sighed, looking toward the hallway.  
  
“Please.” She spoke the word without thinking, then flushed, feeling foolish and wishing she could take it back when he met her eyes. 

For a long moment he said nothing, rubbing absentmindedly at the mosaic on the floor, brushing the dust away from an animal-like figure. “Andruil was the goddess of vengeance and sacrifice, not just hunting, as I understand the Dalish believe - though sometimes that was how she exacted her due. She and Mythal had once been close. After all, a call for justice is so often a cry for revenge. But… in the echoes of a catastrophic decision, Andruil discovered the Void. She spent untold years there, digging in the deep, twisting the purpose of her people, and was slowly corrupted. She became unnaturally powerful but her only gifts were destruction and death. Her lands turned to waste as a plague the likes of which we had never seen in Elvhenan crawled across them. Mythal looked to stop this pestilence from spreading further, and took Andruil’s knowledge of how to find the Void. But the damage had been done.” He dropped into an aching silence, his gaze unfocused and hollow, and it seemed he was reliving ancient memories he would prefer to forget.

Nepenthe frowned. “She took it? How do you take knowledge from someone?”

Abelas looked up at her like he was confused to see her there, and she nearly repeated the question, but then he shook his head and shifted uneasily on the floor. “With magic. It is not simple, or done lightly, but it was necessary. And the start of why Andruil’s followers vilified certain magic. Though, clearly, some remains.” He gestured towards the door, wincing as he moved his burned hand. 

“Let me see it,” she said, crossing to him. But it shouldn’t matter that he’d burned his hand. 

The blisters were much more serious than she had been able to see before, covering the back of his hand as well. 

“Give me your hand. I’ll heal you. Then you can unbind my arms.” 

She knelt in front of him then turned around and held out her hand as best she could in the restraints, palm up. 

“You do not have to do that.” 

“Just give me your hand. If it comes to fighting, you might as well not be maimed.”

She waited in the quiet, flickering dark. _ Enemy_, her mind whispered. She pushed the voice away. Suffering was suffering and she’d seen enough for a lifetime. Plus, this was just practical. Fingertips brushed against hers - hesitant, featherlight - and she nearly jumped.

“It... it will work better if we.. if you give me your whole hand.”

He removed his fingers for a moment and then the warm weight of his palm settled in hers. His hand was much larger and she swallowed as his thumb gently wrapped around to her knuckles. Her fingertips rested along the inside of his wrist, the quick beat of his pulse pattering against them. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the healing spell, which was always more challenging to perform on someone else. Magic flowed from her hand into his and for a moment, she could sense _ more _ of him. The minute ridges and valleys that whorled over the pads of his fingers, the tight scar tissue on one knuckle, the muscles under the smooth skin of his wrist. Her awareness chased his pulse up his arm to his neck, to his parted lips, to the breath shaking between them. She’d just dipped lower, down his chest toward the rapid beating of his heart, when his hand tightened on hers and her focus whipped back into herself, leaving her dazed and blinking. His grip loosened slowly, fingers trembling slightly as he withdrew. She stretched her hand then closed it into a fist, both of them breathing much harder than the effort required. Healing had not felt like… _ that _ before, she thought. 

“Are you ok?” she whispered, not daring to look behind her yet.

“My hand is healed. Thank you,” he said, and Nepenthe wasn’t sure if he had really answered the question.

In the silence that stretched between them, two sets of footsteps approached down the hall. Nepenthe clambered to her feet and backed to the far wall. The door swung open and a Sentinel stepped into view, dispelling the invisible barrier with a wave of her hand. She spoke in Elvhen, but it was clear they were being summoned. Nepenthe fought the urge to immolate her instantly. 

When the Sentinel turned toward the torchlight, Nepenthe saw she was no longer wearing a mask and the red vallaslin of Andruil stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin. Not just red, she realized with a shock - glowing red. Red lyrium vallaslin. She tried to wrap her mind around this. These were elves from the time of Elvhenan. If what Bianca had said was true - that red lyrium was tainted lyrium - then the taint must have existed hundreds or even thousands of years before the first recorded Blight in Tevinter. How was that possible? And how had these Sentinels maintained their sanity with red lyrium embedded in their skin for so long? She wished she could discuss it with Dagna and Dorian. 

Or Abelas. 

If they survived whatever was coming next, maybe she could get him to talk again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20K words and they *finally* have a conversation. Please enjoy some complimentary hand porn as a reward for getting this far. 
> 
> But seriously, thank you all for reading. Also, comments are life - hearing your thoughts makes me want to write faster and helps me know if I’m on track here or if I’m just serving self-indulgent word soup. Likewise, if anything is confusing, problematic, or deserves a trigger warning, I definitely want to know. A story of this length is new territory for me. 
> 
> Also, taint vs Blight in case there’s any confusion. Taint is the corruption spread by darkspawn but it can also infect other things, like lyrium and eluvians. A Blight is the big dealy when all hell breaks loose with the archdemons and darkspawn.
> 
> You can also [find me on Tumblr](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/).


	8. The Priestess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, all the conversation in italics is actually in ancient Elvhen. Nepenthe can understand a little bit of it, but she’s not fluent.

Abelas had watched carefully as the Sentinel dispelled the door barrier and with frustrated clarity knew he could have done so himself easily if he’d still had magic. The loss of it felt like he was trapped in his own mind, as disorienting as suddenly not being able to hear. It would return with time, he just wasn’t sure how much time, so all he could do was wait and then find a way to stop them from giving him the next dose of poison. Or perhaps he could teach... her how to dispel the door. As they were escorted down a narrow stone corridor, he was ashamed to realize he still did not know her name. He’d meant to ask, before whatever happened with the healing spell. 

He tried not to dwell on the feeling of her magic that had crept up his arm and brushed across his lips. A feeling that brought with it an impression of bare feet in shadowy forests, dark lashes lowering over gray eyes, and the scent of wood smoke. Had she realized what she’d done? He never would have allowed it to go so far if he still had his magic, but the sensation had been... interesting. Before exiting the cell, the Sentinels had bound his hands in front again, smirking as they’d done so, pleased to carry out this petty show of their power, his submission. Flexing his hands in the restraints, he grudgingly acknowledged that she had done a serviceable job healing the burns.

He looked straight ahead as they walked. It would be best if he appeared calm and confident - an ally, not a prisoner. She, of course, had no such compulsion and was instead twisting around, peering down every hallway and examining each doorway. There were not many, the temple was shabby and small compared to the grandeur of Mythal’s and he was disgusted to see that the layered cobwebs of centuries hung like shrouds between the torch sconces and dust covered everything, even the occasional pile of bones. He would never have allowed Mythal’s inner sanctum to fall to this state. 

They turned a corner into a larger room that seemed to be their destination. Around the perimeter stood Sentinels holding bows, their arrows at the ready but not drawn. Abelas quickly counted them - twelve, plus their guards. If this plan didn't work, there was no way they'd be able to take on that many. Especially bound and without his magic. Overhead, a section of the roof had caved in, leaving a jagged hole to the night sky - it wasn't yet dawn, so they couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a couple hours. Too soon for anyone to notice he hadn’t reported back.

At the center of the room was a dais with several flat steps leading up to it and at the top was an ornate stone throne, decorated with a twisted mass of carved onyx antlers. Sitting on the throne, perched like a hawk about to strike, was the High Priestess of Andruil. She was dressed in full armor embellished with a pattern of arrows, and she might have been beautiful, but all Abelas noticed was her eyes, which were luminous and as red as her vallaslin. It was absolute madness, he thought, playing with such poison. Andruil’s devotees had never been known for their rational decisions, but using corrupted lyrium to give them greater strength and speed was lunacy. 

He would never forget the first tainted elf he saw, sore-covered and snarling, incoherent but still possessed with some unstoppable urge to destroy, the vallaslin of Andruil barely visible on his rotting face. One had been horrifying. The horde of _banallen_ they’d encountered infecting Andruil’s lands had been unimaginable, a writhing, mindless sea devouring everything in its path. Ashes had caught in his hair as the wind carried the smell of blood and rot up to the ridge his company stood on, and even as he had summoned an inferno to his fingertips, he had despaired that anything would be able to stop them. It had taken all the dragons of the Evanuris, circling on their great leathery wings and scorching the earth, to drive that leaderless army back.

And that should have been the end of it, he thought. But the Evanuris had sensed a power greater than any they had yet claimed, and for all their strength, they were too weak to resist its call.

Their guards bought Abelas and Nepenthe to the foot of the dais, then stepped back a pace, leaving them standing next to each other. 

_ “So, servant of Mythal, you would deliver Fen’Harel to us?” _The high priestess spoke, her voice jagged, like the grinding of bones.

_ “As I have already said. It is a long story, but in the end, he tricked Mythal, as he tricked Andruil and the rest of the Evanuris. I wish to see vengeance done. I hope I have come to the right place.” _

The priestess fixed her feral gaze on Nepenthe. _ “And _ ** _she_ ** _ is supposed to lure him out?” _

Abelas hesitated before answering. _ “They were once intimate. He will come if he knows she is in danger.” _

The Priestess looked back and forth between Abelas and Nepenthe as if she was trying to decide if they were lying, a predator's assessment of her prey. _ “What is so remarkable about her that she would catch the Wolf’s eye?” _

Abelas should have been prepared for the question, but he was not. _ “She worked with him for a time, but I do not presume to know the Dread Wolf’s mind or his preferences.” _

He hoped a vague answer would suffice, since he realized that he had spent so much time actively distancing himself from the rumors of the relationship between Fen’Harel and the Inquisitor that he had not stopped to consider if they might be true. He did not know that much about her - was there something remarkable about her? He thought of how she’d first entered his temple, the mark on her hand feeling like an echo of the magic that had been used to raise the Veil. Now of course, he understood that it had been exactly that. There had been some pull toward her, toward the mark he thought, but now… 

_ “Na i Fen’Harel, esha’lin?” _ the Priestess addressed Nepenthe, disgust and disbelief written across her features.

_ “She does not speak Elvhen,” _ Abelas explained neutrally. Not for the first time, he remembered how she’d walked the petitioner’s path and had been considerate, but not cowering. How she had offered him a place, a chance to help her people, and then turned to Solas, the man not the god, for advice when he refused. He remembered these things, but what he heard was the shape of his name on her lips when she recognized him in the Wilds. _ Abelas_.

The Priestess pursed her lips and asked the question again in Common, speaking the syllables as if they were poisonous. “You and Fen’Harel, girl?” She paused, then her lips twisted into an approximation of a smile. “What is the Dread Wolf like as a lover these days?”

Nepenthe paused for a moment and it seemed she would ignore the obvious bait but then she carefully annunciated, “Fuck. You.” Abelas sighed internally and wished she had not answered at all. No good would come of it.

The High Priestess glanced at Nepenthe’s guard and motioned with her head. The Sentinel stepped forward and cracked the back of her hand across Nepenthe’s cheek. Abelas did not dare to look directly, but he could see her straighten up after the blow, smiling with blood between her teeth. He clenched his fists in the restraints. A cowardly display, he thought, to strike someone unarmed and tied. 

“No need to be vulgar,” the Priestess replied. “Unless - is that an offer? The Common tongue is such a base language, I cannot tell. Nevertheless, I will pass. Beastiality never appealed to me.” She cocked her head, watching Nepenthe like a snake about to strike. “You know, the Wolf used to have _ quite _ a reputation in Arlathan.”

Nepenthe spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor then straightened, looking directly at the Priestess. “You sound jealous.”

“Of you?” she asked incredulously, her laughter like sand ground onto glass. “No, I am simply curious how the Dread Wolf amuses himself these days. Is he rough? Gentle? Does he tell you that you are different? Promise you a place at his side?”

Abelas could not look at Nepenthe, expending significant energy to ignore her completely and play the role of captor and traitor. “Enough of this,” he interjected. “We are wasting time. I would have my revenge. If you can help with that purpose, then our goals are aligned. It would be prudent to act soon, Fen’Harel has been gaining power since he awoke and seeks more.”

“We know what he seeks, digging in the hidden places of the world.” The Priestess tipped her head to the side, her long auburn hair draping over her shoulder. “She sings to us, sleeping, slipping in between.” She closed her eyes then, as if she was listening to silent music. “We hear her calling.” 

Abelas was not at all sure what she was referring to and that troubled him greatly. Some madness brought on by the corrupted lyrium? He couldn’t think of a way to ask that wouldn’t raise their suspicions about his motives.

The Sentinel opened her eyes and addressed Abelas. _ “You say he will come for this shem?” _

_ “He will come.” _

_ “He had better, for your sake.” _

_ “I believe the closest working eluvian is near the town called Southfording. Unless you know of a closer one, I will contact him there,” _said Abelas.

_ “Southfording is a day’s journey at least. My sentinels will accompany you. We will hold the girl. If you attempt to deceive us, or if Fen’Harel does not come alone, or if Fen’Harel does not come at all, she dies and your life is mine.” _ The Priestess leaned forward on the chair. _ “How long do you think I could make you scream? Months? Years? Decades?” _

Her blood red eyes were unnerving, and Abelas fought the impulse to step back a pace, wishing he still had his magic. 

_ “Go now. Rest and eat. We leave in the morning.” _ She motioned to the guards flanking them, and they were led out of the room.

On the way back, Nepenthe did not look at him. She did not look around the temple again, either, walking with her head down, as the guards stayed a pace behind them. Without warning, she spun left and took off running down another hallway. The Sentinel behind Abelas grabbed him and placed a knife against his throat while the other chased after Nepenthe, calling for aid. The hallway was not long and she’d already reached the end and slid around the corner as Abelas’s guard ordered him to walk. Unbelievably foolish, he thought, attempting an escape with no preparation and no plan between them. He was considering whether he could break the guard’s hold without slicing his neck open when more Sentinels caught up to them. 

They pushed him back into the cell and drew the barrier into place. He paced across the cell angrily. What had she been thinking? There was little hope of success, not to mention that if she did anything rash and was killed in the process, he had lost his leverage and likely his life.

He needed to think, perhaps there was something he could still do. He stationed himself as close to the door as he dared, listening for any sounds of a struggle. It wasn’t long before he heard several sets of footsteps coming down the hallway, and he moved away as the door opened. A Sentinel was holding Nepenthe by the hair and pushed her into the room, still bound but looking strangely acquiescent. She seemed unharmed except for the blood at the corner of her mouth and Abelas was relieved for that at least.

She joined him by the back wall as the Sentinels put the barrier back into place and closed the door, hissing obscenities and threats, before stationing themselves further down the hallway. 

“That was ill considered,” he muttered in a low voice, quiet enough that it would not carry to the guards. “Your attempt to flee will only make them more alert, and true escape more difficult.”

She glared at him. “Except, now _ I _ know where the main entrance and my pack are." And you do not. She didn’t say those words, but the underlying meaning was there all the same.

So that’s what she had been doing. Trying to ensure her survival should he betray her in the end. They’d be lucky to get a chance to get that far with the added security now. 

“You were still being reckless and… and unnecessary,” he snapped, knowing he wasn’t entirely making sense.

“Could I add that to my titles?” she asked sarcastically. “Herald of Andraste, Leader of the Inquisition, Closer of Rifts, Reckless and Unnecessary.”

He pursed his lips. “The _risk_ was unnecessary.”

“I am _ not _being left behind in this temple.” She stepped closer to him, seething.

He clenched his jaw, wishing they’d been able to make a plan before it had reached this point. “I was not intending to,” he said, but could tell she did not entirely believe him. “If you understood that part of the conversation, then you should know that they hold the power here, and we have to play the parts in our game.”

She scoffed. “We are hardly the only ones playing games. Did you enjoy whatever that… that little display was by Lady Red Eyes? You must all think I’m so naive.” 

Abelas paused. “I am sorry it went that far. Hitting you was a craven and unnecessary way to demonstrate her control.”

“Hitting me? That had nothing to do with what she was trying to demonstrate. Did you really not understand?” 

Abelas did not know what to say, clearly he had missed something. He must have looked as confused as he felt, because she huffed and turned away muttering, “Gods, you really must have been shut away for eons.”

He frowned. The Priestess had been baiting her, but what had she said specifically to get her so upset? 

_ What is the Dread Wolf like as a lover these days? _

_ These days_. Ah, yes, that was a different game entirely. The Priestess’s comments about whether the Dread Wolf had promised her a place at his side took on a darker meaning. But whatever relationship Andruil’s High Priestess and Fen’Harel had must have been ages ago, back before the split between Mythal and Andruil. A long time to remember a tryst… 

He looked at Nepenthe where she leaned against the wall, staring at the door like she could burn through the barrier with just her eyes. Seeing her reaction to the High Priestess’s petty slights confirmed that at least some of the rumors were true about her and Fen’Harel’s past together. He studied her profile. There was dirt smeared across her cheek and a bruise starting to bloom by the corner of her mouth. A recently healed scar bisected her eyebrow and he wondered how she got it. She shifted, trying to stretch her arms and get some relief from the bindings. They must be quite painful now. 

He found that he did not want to think about her with Fen’Harel, did not want to think about her hands running up his back, her body arching into his, her mouth whispering his name. He pushed the thoughts away. It had been insensitive, he could admit at least, allowing the intimate details of her life to be dragged out and manipulated as part of a ploy.

He moved closer to her and waited until she looked at him. “I… am sorry, for what it is worth,” he whispered, watching her eyes. And maybe he was apologizing for the situation, or for binding her, or for the general state of her world, or for needing to destroy it, or for all of it.

She said nothing, but something in her expression softened, just a little. 

“Would you like to get out of here?” 

She swallowed. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

They whispered together, leaning against the wall, and outlined a plan to wait until the Sentinels returned with food and dropped the barrier, using that as their opening to escape. Nepenthe could use her magic and once he disarmed a guard, he’d have a bow and arrows. They’d retrieve their packs then head to the main entrance and hope that Nepenthe would be able to drop the barrier there with his instructions.

“Once we are clear of the temple, we can lose them in the Wilds if needed,” he said.

“They’ll just be able to track us. I had no problem finding you.”

“Perhaps we will get very lucky and be able to sneak out without detection. A feat which would have been considerably more manageable if you had not gone running through the temple.” She narrowed her eyes, and he continued, “At some point my magic will return, and then I can create paths that will allow us to walk above the mud.”

“That’s how you got over the pools,” she mused, half to herself. "Why didn't you do it the whole way?"

"I was not particularly concerned."

She paused, and ran her tongue along her teeth, then shook her head. “Until your magic returns, I can create frozen pathways that may work well enough. And after that, after we’re sure we’ve outrun them, we go our separate ways. You don’t stop me, and I don’t stop you. Agreed?” 

She looked him in the eye and he nodded, feeling like there was something he should say, but instead he simply asked, “Can you remove my bindings now?” 

“I can try. I wish they hadn’t taken my knife, cause I can’t promise I won’t burn you as badly as the door barrier did.” He thought she might be attempting a joke, but she continued, serious. “Fire is not my element.”

“You will just have to heal me again afterward,” he said with a calm he didn’t entirely feel. 

Her eyes flicked to his neck, then his lips, then his chest, retracing the path her focus had traveled before and his heart beat faster, realizing that she remembered it too, had been aware of her consciousness grazing over his body. 

She turned around, flustered. “Yes, that would be...Let’s just hope this works.”

He placed his bound wrists into her outstretched hand, trying to hold his hands rigidly but his knuckles still touched her skin where her shirtsleeve had ridden up. Her skin was soft and a little bit cold and he had an absurd urge to uncurl his fingers and touch the tiny veins on the inside of her wrist. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing she would just do the spell. 

“Ok, here goes,” she warned over her shoulder a second before the bindings sparked then burst into flame. He pulled his wrists apart quickly as fire consumed the rope, but not quite quickly enough to avoid the hair on the back of his hands getting singed. It could have been worse he decided, tamping out the smoldering rope with the toe of his boot.

He worked at the knots of rope where she was bound above her elbows, quickly undoing them and then hiding the ropes in a corner near the door where they would not be easily seen. 

She stretched her arms in front of her, breathing a sigh of relief. He noticed she massaged one elbow, then reached for the other, stopping mid-way, as if she’d just recalled the hand was not there. She saw him looking and dropped her arms to her side.

“So, now we wait. Might as well get comfortable,” she said pragmatically, walking toward the back wall of the cell where it was darkest and sitting down, her arms resting across her knees.

He hesitated, unsure if he would be welcome to join her. But it was the darkest area and the safest place to wait, and if they needed to converse to plan further, he didn’t want to speak too loudly. He crossed the room and settled himself next to her. 

They sat in silence for a minute before Abelas cleared his throat. “What should I call you? You are no longer the Inquisitor, correct? I do not know your name.”

“It’s Nepenthe. You can call me that.”

He paused, unsure that he had heard correctly. “What?”

“You can call me Nepenthe.”

“That is truly your name?” He turned toward her so that he could see her better in the flickering light.

“Yes. Is there something wrong with it?” she asked, annoyance giving her voice a harsh edge.

“No. No, I am just… do you know what it means?”

“Yes, I know what it means, Abelas. It’s my name. It comes from _ ne panathe_. There will be strife. Which seems fitting.” She gestured vaguely in a motion that seemed to indicate everything.

It had changed then, the derivation of her name. In Elvhenan, it had come from _ nehn enathe_, the beginning of joy. But its use had been more nuanced, a name for the specific joy that comes after suffering, a balm for sorrow; someone who could aid in healing pain and bring peace where there had been none. Children were often given the name after a period of turmoil, or hardship, or loss, or grief, as a portent of something better to come. 

Her name was like a bright thread winding through the shadows of his own. It is just a name, he reminded himself, but he wondered how a person could ever be whole with two names so at odds with each other. Strife and joy.

A sadness settled over Abelas, mourning for the name she should have had, wondering if telling her now would make any difference. Or if it was just another thing that had been lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Nepenthe in English does in fact mean a medicine for sorrow. So many LAYERS. Also, I am not subtle.
> 
> Banallen = darkspawn
> 
> Also, I HC that Solas wasn’t particularly promiscuous in the old days, the Priestess is just being a troll.


	9. Conversations

He was reacting like Solas used to. Something about her name was disappointing, probably not _ Elvhen _ enough, another thing the Dalish had gotten wrong. She twisted the cuff in her ear as she looked between her knees at the mosaic floor.

_ For all the Dalish got wrong, they did one thing right. They made you. _

And what had the Elvhen gotten so right, she wanted to scream back at the memory of Solas. Wars and pestilence and lyrium stained slaves? She reached down and ground a piece of the mosaic into dust with her thumb. 

“How did you get your name?” Abelas asked. But his tone wasn’t disdainful, if anything it was sad, and that unexpected gentleness was what swayed her to answer after a moment.

“I didn’t choose it like you did, if that’s what you mean.” She crushed another piece of the mosaic, reveling in the petty act of destruction. “My parents gave it to me when I was born at the beginning of a hard winter. I obviously don’t remember it, but my mother told me stories about that year.”

“What happened?” Abelas asked, his fingers moving absently over the floor, sweeping the gravel into a small pile.

Nepenthe responded in a low murmur. “She said there had been terrible rains in the summer and most of the harvest was lost to flooding. Then fighting between the neighboring arls spread and my clan needed to flee to a more remote area as the frosts began. Food was scarce and the hunting grounds were unknown. We hung on the edge of starvation that season.” Another piece of the mosaic became gravel under her thumb.

It had been ages since she’d talked even that much about herself or her family, but she found it didn’t hurt like she expected it to. And in truth, it was preferable to dwelling on the things the priestess had said. “I think my name was supposed to protect me,” she continued. “That somehow strife would make me strong.” 

“And has it? Protected you?”

She stopped destroying the mosaic and looked at him, frowning. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, turning towards her.

“Why are you asking me these questions about myself?” 

He stilled, looking down and away. “No reason. I will stop.” 

He almost looked embarrassed, until his face settled back into impassivity, and it occurred to her that maybe he was talking because he was lonely. She wondered what his life had been like before they met at the temple, and after, but every question she could think to ask seemed too personal and too depressing, like dropping a stone in a well and watching it slowly sink into darkness. 

The torchlight flickered over the walls and she could feel the chill of the stone through her leathers. Her arm throbbed and she rubbed it distractedly, wondering how much time they had before the food was brought, or if they’d decided against it after she had broken away from the guards. It must be late, after midnight at least. As her earlier adrenaline ebbed, exhaustion caught up with her and she stifled a yawn, noticing that her fingernails were caked with mud from when she fell earlier. She picked at the dirt with her thumbnail, but it was ineffectual and she quickly gave up. She shifted on the hard floor, trying to find a more comfortable position, and cast about for something to talk about, anything to help her stay alert. 

“How did you get that scar on your knuckle?” she finally asked, deciding that was hopefully safe ground. It was small, she probably would never have noticed it if she hadn’t healed him. Hadn’t _ felt _ him.

He glanced down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over the knuckle of his middle finger. “It is… a long story.”

She shrugged. “We seem to have time. Don’t you want to regale me with tales of ancient wars both famous and forgotten?”

He opened his mouth like he was going to speak, then closed it again, and sighed.

“It’s ok,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me. I was just...” She trailed off and went back to crushing the mosaic, but found it had lost its appeal.

“I was cutting a piece of bread,” he muttered.

It took her a second to realize what he’d said. “What?” she said, startled into laughing.

He turned toward her, the corner of his mouth lifting, nearly a smile. “It was a dull knife and a hard loaf. The knife slipped and…” he made a cutting motion over his knuckle. 

“Are you serious?” 

“I believe bread injuries are always serious.” He looked at her solemnly, but then the smile started to return and he pursed his lips, his exhale sounding remarkably like a laugh.

And she answered it with quiet snorted laughter of her own, because she never expected him to have a sense of humor, and the joke was so bad, and because a lover could become an enemy and an enemy could make you smile, and because there was a terrible, crushing beauty in the curve of his lips, in the curve of her own.

“_Fenhedhis_. That’s not the story I was expecting. When did it happen?”

He ran his finger over the scar. “A long time ago. Before I became a Sentinel. My mother was a terrible baker. She did not make bread often, and it became even less frequent after I cut myself. I think she felt quite guilty about that,” he said, shaking his head. “Though, it probably did not help that we teased her about it mercilessly.” The flicker of a smile returned and she mirrored it unconsciously.

She wondered who he meant by _ we_. Did he once have siblings? A family of his own? She couldn’t bring herself to ask, but the draw of his history was so strong it became a physical ache in her chest. She envisioned a thread stretching all the way back to the early days of his life. A thread she desperately wanted to pull, to pull and pull and pull, until he unraveled before her and then she would wind it again carefully, gathering the truth into neat skeins, a way to take the measure of a man whose life was marked in centuries.

“I’d never had bread, real bread, made with flour, until I was at Haven. After I got the mark,” she said, and then wished she hadn’t, because it was such an inane comment. Why would he care when she first ate bread? It was just another reminder that the Dalish were too nomadic, too separate, too _ fleeting _ to be able to grow wheat and have it milled and build ovens to bake it in. All of which they must have had in Elvhenan. “We made _ bradh gen'adahl. _It was good too,” she said defensively, though he’d given no indication that his thoughts had followed her own.

At the thought of the dense bread she grew up eating, her stomach growled audibly and she put her hand across it. “How long are we going to wait here? If the next time they come is the morning, in force, we’ve lost our chance.”

He nodded slowly. “I agree. But that remains a problem,” he said, gesturing toward the door.

Even if she could dispel the barrier, which she was not totally confident about, the ambient light of the spell would alert the guards that one of them was working magic. Which would not end well, she thought.

“Any chance your magic is coming back yet?” she asked hopefully. When he shook his head grimly, she got to her feet, wiping her hand on her leathers. “Ok then, we just have to find a way to get them to open the barrier.”

She crossed to the door and looked down the hall as best she could without getting too close. The Sentinels were several yards away, clad in dark armor and standing at attention, bows in hand. Both were women, as all Andruil’s Sentinels seemed to be. Mythal’s had all been men at the temple - just personal preference? Even in the semi-darkness, their lyrium vallaslin glowed with a sickly light of its own, casting strange shadows over their faces. 

She realized she was running out of time to get any answers. _ Kaffas_. She should have been trying to figure out Solas’s plans or get information about the Veil or the Evanuris, not talking about bread. 

She glanced towards Abelas. “Why lyrium?” she mouthed, drawing a circle around her face with her finger. 

He stood up and crossed to her, looking over her shoulder to see what she was asking about. 

“Why does anyone play with forces they cannot hope to control?” he asked, his voice a low rumble by her ear. 

Several ideas came to mind, but she waited for him to go on. 

“Greed. Fanaticism. Arrogance. Stupidity.” He sighed wearily and she felt his breath on the back of her neck. “I had thought they used it solely to improve their physical abilities, but I am beginning to suspect it may have another purpose.” 

“Like what?” she murmured, not taking her eyes off the Sentinels.

“Something the Priestess said. That they are hearing singing. Or perhaps it is simply driving them mad.”

“She said ‘we hear her calling’. Like _ the _ calling? I thought all the dragons were male. And why would Andruil’s Sentinels be hearing the Old Gods any...?” She spun around as she asked the last question and ran into his chest. 

Flustered, she jerked away. The door barrier activated behind her with a crackle and a whining vibration. Her eyes went wide and she gasped as her hair lifted in the electrical current, bracing herself for unimaginable pain. 

Then Abelas’s arm shot out, grabbing her elbow and yanking her away. _Gods he was fast, _she thought as she crashed back into his chest and his other arm wrapped around her shoulders, steadying her. She stood there shaking, heart racing, unsure how close she’d just come to serious injury. 

And that is how the Sentinels found them, when they appeared at the door a split second later.

For a moment nothing happened. Nepenthe continued to stand there, her cheek pressed to Abelas’s breastplate, her arm slung around his waist. 

Then one Sentinel moved, wrenching the door open and flinging the barrier aside with a furious sweep of her arm. She growled something about Fen'Harel in Elvhen that Nepenthe didn't catch as the other slid back and nocked an arrow, shouting a warning. But her companion was blocking a clear shot. 

Nepenthe snapped a binding spell into place over both Sentinels. It wasn’t particularly strong, her thoughts were scattered, but it was unexpected and gave them a momentary advantage. Abelas grabbed a knife from the belt of the nearest guard, and drew the blade of it across her throat without hesitating. Then several things happened at once. The elf in the hall managed to dispel the binding spell and the Sentinel’s body collapsed to the ground, pulling Abelas down with her. An arrow flew by his face and struck the far wall with enough force to knock loose a spray of shattered masonry. Nepenthe spun out of arrow range, hiding against the wall next to the open door, and quickly pulled hard on the threads of magic, winding them around her hand. If the other guard ran to sound the alarm they were done for. Glancing out the door, she aimed a spell at the woman. It hit just as she was loosing another arrow. With a strange crackling sound, the guard fell onto her knees, then pitched forward onto her face.

Nepenthe glanced back to Abelas. He'd regained his feet and was still holding the fallen Sentinel's knife. His hand was covered in blood, but it was probably not his and he seemed unharmed - the last arrow had gone wide and was laying on the floor. Their eyes met and she nodded. "All set?"

He ran forward, knife held ready, and crouched to feel the pulse of the elf in the hall.

“She’d better be dead. I froze her heart."

He looked up at her, eyebrows raised. “Effective.”

"You were, too."

He wiped his bloody hand on the Sentinel's cloak then released her quiver, put it on himself, and pulled her bow out of her grip. He grabbed one of the woman’s arms and motioned for Nepenthe to grab the other. Together, they dragged her body into the cell and closed the door behind them. 

In the guttering light of the torches, they paused, listening. The hallway was quiet, still empty, and so they crept down the corridor, staying close to the wall.

“Your binding spells need work,” whispered Abelas. 

Nepenthe gestured rudely towards his back.

They reached another hallway and Abelas held out his hand, motioning for her to stop as he glanced around the corner. Apparently it was clear, because he started moving again.

“How can you expect to hold anything when the casting is so loose?” he continued.

“Maybe let’s discuss this later?” she hissed. “Turn right up here.”

They made their way steadily, creeping past doorways and keeping to the shadows between torches, but all remained quiet. She’d been running too fast to notice before, but there were mosaics set into the floor and walls depicting twisting figures and abstract swirling designs. They were similar to the ones she’d studied at Mythal’s temple. The ones she’d poured over, reading each inscription, determined to learn everything she could of the past, even as the one person capable of explaining it all lingered by her side, and said nothing.

“What’s Solas digging for?” she whispered.

“I cannot say.”

“Won’t say, or don’t know?” 

When he didn’t respond, she tried a different tactic.

“What did the Priestess mean about _ hearing her calling_?” She glanced behind them. Still clear. 

“I do not exactly know. It should not be possible.”

“Is it the same calling? The call of the Old Gods?”

Abelas stopped by another corner, peeked around it. “What are you talking about?”

He started to move forward again, but she grabbed his arm. “Hold on, I think it’s the other way.” He glanced down at her hand on his arm and she quickly withdrew it. “The Old Gods - the dragons. The ones that...”

“Dragons?” he interrupted her. “You think dragons are gods?” 

“No, not my gods. Some people think they are. Or used to think that.” _ Fenhedis_. How was she supposed to explain all of Tevinter’s religious history while escaping from captivity? “It doesn’t matter. Watch the doorway there.”

“I see it.”

A noise echoed down the hall, and they ducked into a small recessed alcove, probably once meant for a statue, but now empty. Nepenthe held her breath, her shoulder pressed into Abelas’s arm. They waited, but could hear nothing further. She exhaled quietly, glancing up at him and motioning with her head that they should keep going.

“Anyways,” she continued in a whisper, “the Old Gods...call. Only darkspawn and wardens can hear it. And then they turn into archdemons every time they’re unearthed by the darkspawn and there’s..”

That stopped him in his tracks, and he turned slowly to face her. “Unearthed? The dragons are underground?”

“Yes, they’re underground. And then they turn into archdemons, and control all the darkspawn, and the blight lasts until they’re killed.”

He came closer in the darkness, and it was hard to see his face, but his eyes glowed in the candlelight. “How many? How many have been killed?” 

“F..five,” she answered, uncertain what was causing his reaction.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the wall, his knuckles straining as his fist tightened around the bow grip. He began muttering under his breath in Elvhen. It could have been a string of curses or a prayer, she wasn’t sure.

She whispered his name but he didn’t answer, and she glanced around the hallway again. Still quiet but their luck was bound to run out. “Abelas,” she hissed again, and when he still didn’t answer she reached out, her hand tentatively hovering over his chest, unsure where to touch him to get his attention. Her eyes flicked over his body and with an annoyed huff, she settled for tugging on the cuff of his sleeve. His eyes snapped open and found hers. “The seals are failing,” he whispered bleakly. “Fen’Harel - he knew about these dragons being killed?”

“Yes, he knows,” she replied, puzzled. 

He nodded and swallowed. “There are two left though. That is something.” 

“We need to keep moving. Come on,” she said, moving in front of him and down the hallway. “What do you mean the seals are failing? 

“It was an imperfect solution. But it will not be your problem to rectify. There are forces at work that you cannot comprehend _ molain_. Your life will play out, and the world will be reshaped.”

_ Molain_, little mouse. Though he spoke morosely, his casual condescension annoyed her, as Solas’s always had. 

_ Does he tell you that you are different? _

“Or maybe I would understand if someone actually explained it to me,” she said sharply, facing him.

He shrugged, "Even if you understood, you could not change it."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You know, my clan had a story about little mice. Maybe I'll tell it to you someday."

Abelas said nothing, starting to go around her, but she put her hand out as a detail of their conversation suddenly caught her attention. “Wait,” she said slowly, “how did you know there would only be two Old Gods left?” 

Abelas didn't answer, he was looking over her shoulder, focused on something down the hall. “Our packs.”

She turned back around and saw where he was looking. They were where she’d seen them before, thrown into an alcove along with their cloaks. He rushed past her, quickly checking over his gear and then he shouldered his pack and threw the cloak on. She followed closely behind, noticing that it looked like her pack had been searched, and as she put it on, she hoped nothing of value had been taken. Though at this point, the most valuable thing was probably mudweed cakes. 

Just past the alcove was an intersection with another hallway and she stood there, hesitating. 

“Which way?” asked Abelas.

“I’m thinking.” She twisted the cuff in her ear, looking up and down the hallway again. Both directions looked the same - stone, flickering light, darkness at the end where they turned a corner. “I don’t remember,” she muttered. “It’s close though. Let’s split up, we’ll cover more ground - you scout down there. There’s an archway I passed through right before I saw the entrance. Just check the end of that hallway, then meet me back here.”

He looked at her suspiciously. “You will not be able to release the spell on the entrance by yourself.”

She paused, realizing what he was thinking. “I’m not trying to trick you, Abelas. I wouldn’t leave you here to be tortured, I just don’t remember.”

He seemed like he was about to say something more, but then he just nodded, and moved away silently down the hall. She turned the opposite way and hurried towards the darkness at the end of the corridor. As she turned the corner, she saw an archway and thought for a moment that she was going the correct direction, but as she got closer, there was no large entryway beyond it. Instead, there was a stone pillar, a few feet high, set into an intricate square mosaic. And balanced on top of the pillar was an orb. An orb covered in a swirling pattern like a fingerprint. An orb identical to the one that had been Solas’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bradh gen'adahl = root bread  
My Brain: …..  
Me: Yes?  
My Brain: Seriously? Head injury puns?  
Me: Isn’t writing fun!?  
My Brain: I see what you’re doing, by the way.  
Me: hmmm?  
My Brain: It’s rather hard to have an in-depth conversation about all these secrets in the middle of escaping, isn’t it? You have a goal for all this, right?  
Me: EVERY ALTERNATIVE WAS WORSE.  
My Brain: Seriously?  
Me: I HAD PLANS  
My Brain: Are you done?  
Me: Yes, I have plans. 
> 
> You can also [find me on Tumblr](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/), where I sometimes post stuff.


	10. Barrier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks to the wonderful [Johaerys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys/) who beta read this chapter! <3 <3

The orb was identical to the one she had caught in the Temple of Sacred Ashes when fate or bad luck had intervened to place her in that exact place at that exact time. The first orb had been powerful enough to tear a hole in the fabric between worlds. Powerful enough to finally drive Solas to leave when it lay shattered and drained on the ground. And here was its twin, wrapped in the same coiling marks, close enough that she could walk over and grab it. Thousands of years ago, Solas’s orb had been the beginning of everything - helping to raise the Veil and shape the world in ways that were still unfolding. Would this orb be the one to end it all? The alpha and the omega, two opposing poles in the story of creation.

She glanced down at her missing hand and let out her breath in a hiss. Touching the first orb had nearly killed her. And there was no helpful apostate mage nearby to heal her if this should do the same, she thought bitterly. But Solas’s orb had been unlocked, and this one was dark, seemingly dormant. 

She took a deep breath. Abelas would be back to their meeting point soon, if he wasn’t there already. She needed to hurry. And gods, she needed to pee. It had been hours and might be hours more before she got another chance. Cursing under her breath, she ducked behind a pillar and relieved herself on the temple floor. Sera would have been absolutely delighted to know she’d defiled an ancient temple in this way.

Readjusting her waistband, she crouched to pick up a small stone and tossed it toward the orb, bracing herself for the barrier to activate. The stone pinged off the metal sphere with a small clank and then clattered across the floor, the sound echoing in the chamber. She grimaced, but it was all the confirmation she needed. Darting forward, she grabbed the orb, which was heavier than she expected, and rushed to put down her pack and open it. Pushing herbs and books and clothes out of the way, she buried the orb at the bottom, then stood up, scanning the room for any sign that the Sentinels had been alerted to her presence here. 

Still quiet. 

No. Not still quiet. There were faint footsteps approaching from another corridor across the space. She shouldered her pack and started to run, but as she reached the corner, she heard a shout behind her and an arrow clipped into the masonry by her head. She glanced back to see a group of four or five Sentinels just entering the chamber. She had a head start, but not by much.

Any attempt to be stealthy was gone as she pounded down the corridor, her footsteps echoing against the stone. A figure with a bow swung out from the shadows ahead of her and she nearly discharged a spell, wrenching it back at the last minute. “It’s me. Don’t shoot,” she called. Abelas lowered the bow momentarily, then raised it again, releasing an arrow that skimmed past her. A string of Elvhen curses rang out and she hoped his arrow had found its mark.

She caught up to him and created a barrier around them both as he loosed another arrow before turning and following her. 

“Please tell me you found the exit,” she gasped.

“Yes. What took you so long?” he asked, suspicious.

“I had to pee.” It wasn’t a total lie, and it kept him from asking any further questions. 

They sprinted around the corner and through the archway that led to the main door. 

More arrows slipped around them and they ducked behind a pillar as Abelas loosed several in return. “_Fenedhis_,” he growled, followed by a string of expletives and a word she recognized as ‘my magic’. “Perhaps a spell would be helpful here?” he snapped.

“I’m working on it!” She yanked the cords of magic around her, felt them vibrate in response, and then put all her focus into creating a massive ice wall across the corridor. As it formed, two Sentinels slipped through. She managed to freeze one, killing her, but the other hid behind a pillar. 

“Start working on the barrier, I will mark her,” said Abelas.

The arched entrance was sealed by two wide doors, made of some kind of metal and covered in intricate golden filigree. She wished fleetingly that she could have examined them without needing to worry about losing her life. 

The area in front of the door seemed to shimmer and there was a distinct hum in the air. Whatever spell was sealing them in, it was extremely powerful. She tried to sense how to pull the barrier out of the way, but like Abelas’s binding spell, it was solid. Tentatively, she attempted to wrap her magic around it, but as her spell touched the barrier it released a shower of sparks and a high pitched whine that made her flinch. 

“Not like that,” Abelas muttered, still scanning the semi-darkness for the Sentinel. 

“How then?” she asked. 

“Do you feel it? How the barrier is like a pulse?”

She concentrated on the hum she’d sensed, deciding it could be like a pulse. “Okay, yes.”

“You have to feed through the opposite pattern.” 

“What?” said Nepenthe, panic creeping into her tone. “I don’t know what that means.”

Abelas shot an arrow as the Sentinel briefly showed herself, but she ducked back before it reached her and it harmlessly hit the wall instead. “The pulse comes in waves, yes?” he said impatiently, his eyes never leaving the Sentinel’s hiding place. “High, low, high, low. You need to make the opposite pattern - low, high, low, high - and feed it through the barrier.”

She continued to look at him for a moment, mouth falling open, before she frowned, turning back toward the barrier. “This is never going to work.” 

“The magebane is starting to wear off, but not enough. This has to work.”

She concentrated on gathering the filaments again, attempting to visualize how to feed them through the barrier. She sent out a spell that once more only ended in sparks and a painful sound. “Shit. Shit. This is not happening.”

Abelas grunted, releasing another arrow toward the Sentinel, keeping her pinned behind the column. “Why are you pulling your magic? I can see you - you are using too much effort.”

“I’m just doing what I always do!”

“Don’t pull, just let it flow through.”

She threw up her arms. “I don’t know how to do anything differently. This is how I use magic. I pull it, that’s it.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I assumed you knew a different technique.” 

“Why would you assume that?” She frowned as she sent another spell toward the barrier, flinching back as it failed.

A booming crack echoed in the room, and Nepenthe startled, spinning around to see a fracture appear in the ice wall. The Sentinel flashed out from behind the pillar then, her arrow heading straight for Abelas’s chest. In the blink of an eye, Nepenthe sent all her frustration into an ice spell that intercepted it in a whirl of sparkling crystals. Abelas had already drawn and loosed, and was rewarded with a scream from across the chamber. He immediately followed it with another and the screaming stopped abruptly. Lowering the bow, he turned to Nepenthe.

“When you... healed me,” he began, not quite meeting her eyes. “You let magic flow through you and... into me, into the spaces where my magic should have been.” 

Nepenthe pretended to study the doors. “I… don’t know how I did that. I was just…”

“What was your intent? What were you thinking about?”

She flushed, unable to stop it even though she knew it made her look incredibly guilty. “Healing you,” she snapped. 

A faint line appeared between his brows as he frowned.

She tried to remember if she had been thinking about anything else though. The history of her people? Or the legends he’d lived through? Or simply the man underneath the sorrow and the duty? She shook her head. Maybe she _ had _ been reaching. Maybe somehow that yearning had connected her magic in a different way. 

A spray of ice shattered off the wall and she tensed, her nails digging into her palm. Reinforcements would have arrived by now. Probably the Priestess as well.

“Ok, but how do I do it again?” she asked him, voice tight with worry. 

“Relax. Feel the magic around you.” He came next to her, his movements smooth and unhurried, but something in the set of his jaw betrayed that he was not as calm as he sounded. 

She took off her pack and shook out her arms, trying to release the feeling of mounting panic. She’d once assumed that she would eventually become numb to battle, that after facing countless demons, there would come a point when she was no longer afraid. But that day had not yet come, if it ever would. Each battle was different, with its own challenges, and no outcome was ever guaranteed. She’d seen firsthand that it was as easy to die in your fortieth battle as your first if your opponent got an advantage or you lost your focus.

A section of the ice wall sheared away and she jumped, looking over her shoulder as Abelas drew his bow. She stood frozen, waiting for the crack to widen, but it remained intact for the time being.

“_Syla, molain_.” [breathe, little mouse]

He’d said it like a pet name, like one of Varric’s endless nicknames, but she still muttered, “not a mouse,” under her breath.

“I had to relearn how to work magic once the _ i've'an'aria _ was in place. If I can do that, you can do this. Keep your focus here,” he said, indicating her sternum. “If they get through, I will handle them.” 

She glanced around toward the ice wall and he came back to her, standing behind her and blocking her view. He motioned towards the door and she turned to face it again. “Close your eyes.”

She gave him a skeptical look, but then did as he said, standing with her arms at her sides. 

“Breathe. Feel the rhythm of the barrier. Feel it around you. Feel it inside of you. Feel it like your heart beat.” His voice was an invocation, weaving around her, sending a prickle of goosebumps across the back of her neck and down her arms. “Let your magic come from here.” His fingers gently pressed the center of her back. When his hand dropped away, she twisted and sighed, trying to find her center. 

Solas had never done this. Never tried to teach her this. No doubt another way to preserve his deception. She pushed the thought away - it did not matter, would not help now. 

She could feel the pulse of the barrier running through her now, amplified, thrumming in her blood, electric along her skin. She focused on releasing her magic, reaching, rather than pulling. It was like trying to learn a different way to breathe. Or a different way to ride a horse, or button a waistband, or untangle a heart. 

The world narrowed to this - her heartbeat, his presence behind her, this rhythm. She held onto the feeling for as long as she dared, then with a shuddering exhale, she let her magic go and felt it flow away from her and twine between the vibrations of the barrier. There was a wash of light behind her eyelids, and the barrier dissipated.

She opened her eyes, still feeling the tingle of magic all over her body, and huffed a laugh, relieved and amazed. Then with a jolt, she realized that Abelas was no longer standing behind her because he was firing arrows toward the approaching Sentinels. She felt dazed and somewhat electrified, but she was drained and the spell she aimed at them was weak and went wide, smashing into a column instead.

“It’s down,” she said hazily toward Abelas, before picking up her pack and wandering toward the metal doors as if in a dream. She watched her hand push on the scrolled decorations as an arrow struck only inches away. And then she was left pressing nothing as the door suddenly swung out and she vaguely grasped that Abelas had forced them open and was grabbing her arm, pulling her after him. 

The air was cold and damp, but the chill helped clear the haze in her mind that remained after the complicated spellwork. She found her footing again, following Abelas across the open ground. The clouded sky above blended the boundary between night and dawn, casting everything in the same shade of dull gray. Ahead, there was a shadowy line of moss-hung trees at the edge of a lake. If they could just reach the cover of the forest, she thought, they’d be able to lose the Sentinels, or at least conceal themselves for a counter attack.

Arrows fell around them and she attempted to cast a protective barrier, but she still felt depleted. The fragile loops of the spell barely shimmered to life before they fell apart, and she didn’t have the energy to try again.

Abelas was with her as they entered the trees at full speed, but as she leaped over fallen branches and wove between dense trunks, she lost sight of him in the shadows. The lake was to her right, so she kept wide to avoid getting penned in against the shore. She listened for the Sentinels behind her, but they were either not there, or moving too silently to be heard over her ragged breathing.

The trees thinned, and as she drew closer, she realized it was because there was a deep ravine cutting away from the lake, the sounds of rushing water churning up from the bottom of it. The slope was too steep to descend without losing her lead, so she turned, following along the bank. She scanned the brush ahead - where was Abelas? Had he already taken off on his own? Probably. He had no reason to stay, though he could have at least waited until they were both safe. Her anger flared and she pretended it wasn’t disappointment. 

A figure flashed between the trunks to her left. Not Abelas - her red vallaslin was starkly visible in the pre-dawn light without a skull to cover it. The Sentinel was fast, running on a course to intercept her, and so Nepenthe put on a burst of speed, her lungs burning, and started to pivot away from the ravine. An arrow struck her pack with enough force to push her off balance and she stumbled.

And then her thigh muscle cramped so hard her leg locked. She cried out as she fell, hitting the ground with enough force to feel her ribs crack. 

Gasping for breath, she rolled onto her side, her pack awkwardly weighing her down. Her leg felt strange, heavy and hot and wet. She looked down to see an arrow protruding out of her thigh, blood seeping out around the shaft. Pain roared across her ribs as she tried to sit up and she collapsed, fumbling to do a healing spell on her chest, the magic slipping out of her grasp. The leg would need more than magic to fix. She froze as footsteps approached. And then she was looking up along the shaft of an arrow into the red eyes of the High Priestess. 

“You have a bright spirit,” she said in her glass-broken voice. “Andruil would have once claimed you for her own. Perhaps she still will.” The priestess’s face twisted as she bent lower. “But first,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “I am going to make this _ hurt_.”

Nepenthe desperately tried to pull a spell into existence - there would be no second chance to escape, no chance this would not end in her death. But her feeble attempts at barriers and healing spells had exhausted her magic completely. Her opponent had gotten an advantage and she had lost her focus. The Priestess glanced away, nodding, and Nepenthe realized that other Sentinels had arrived and were standing on the other side of her. 

One woman bent down toward Nepenthe and as she did so, the air suddenly shimmered around her. The hair on Nepenthe’s arms stood up as a wave of energy rushed past her and slammed into the Sentinels and the Priestess, sending them flying back. Nepenthe could still feel the tingle of the spell in her teeth as she saw them land several meters away and remain there, unmoving. A soft rustling caught her attention and then Abelas was at her side, crouching down, examining the arrow. 

“You’re injured.”

“And you got your magic back. And you’re still here,” she gasped as she tried to sit up again. Even breathing sent rivers of pain branching across her chest.

“I told you I would be until we were safe,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Stay down. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Just my ribs. Help me up, I can walk.” She winced just saying the words as the injury cut through her adrenaline and a burning pain tightened along her thigh.

He gave her a withering look, then turned and sent another spell cracking into the forest. The ground underneath her shook with the impact as a ring of fire fanned out to surround them, leaving the ravine behind them as their only escape. 

Abelas looked over the entry point of the arrow wound, shaking his head. He grasped the shaft with both hands. “Do a healing spell, but this may still hurt.” Before she could manage a spell, he snapped it. The motion torqued the arrowhead in her leg and Nepenthe screamed.

A muscle twitched in Abelas’s jaw. “I cannot heal it until the arrowhead is out,” he said, his voice strained.

“I know,” she panted, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. “I know how to treat arrow wounds. I’ve just never gotten one.” There’d always been someone watching her back, someone ready to throw a barrier around her if her own faltered, someone to make sure the Herald of Andraste did not fall in battle. She breathed through the pain, willing it to subside until she could heal herself again.

When she opened her eyes, he was looking intently at her. She turned her head to meet his gaze, knowing that with her injury and the return of his magic she had switched from being an asset to a liability. Whatever uneasy truce had formed between them was being reconsidered. His expression was unreadable, calculating, and she could not look away. She noticed that the centers of his eyes were lighter, flax melting into amber. Golden eyes and silver hair - a man of metal. A man of mettle. Something measured and unspoken passed between them, and he took a deep breath, his mouth drawing into a line as he came to some resolution of his own thoughts.

“Come on,” he said, leaning forward to slide his arm between her and her pack, and she wondered whether his actions were his own, or if he was still simply following orders to not let her die. He helped her stand, then turned them both to survey the line of fire behind them. Through the flickering heat and smoke, the Sentinels were starting to stir. Several others crept through the woods, bows drawn, shadows beyond the flames.

They were outnumbered and trapped against the ravine. She squared her shoulders and looked up at him. “Now what?” 

“Now we go,” he said. He half supported, half lifted her as they backed toward the ravine.

The arrow moved in her thigh and she writhed. “We’re going down there?”

“No,” he said without looking away from the line of Sentinels. “Hold on to me.” She glanced behind them as the sound of the rushing water intensified. Curls of mist rose above the banks and then a wall of dark water surged upward, foam cascading off its churning sides. Her eyes wide, she looked up at him.

“Hold on,” he said to her more urgently, “I have not attempted this with two people before.” 

“Attempted what?” she asked, but shifted painfully to wrap her arms around his waist, acutely aware of the press of her body against his.

She felt a barrier wrap around them both and then he turned and stepped into the churning water. She shut her eyes and held her breath instinctively as they plunged into the freezing wave. 

But somehow the barrier protected them from the water. She could feel it pressing against her, a deep roiling pressure all over, but she was not wet. It tore at them, the force threatening to rip her away and she pulled herself closer to him, pressing her face against his chest, his arms tightening around her.

“You can breathe,” he said, and she felt the words rumble in his chest more than heard them. 

She left out her breath in a rush and then struggled to inhale, the force of the water strange against her mouth. It intensified the ache in her ribs and pulled at the section of the arrow shaft still protruding. Her breath came in short gasps and her grip tightened on his waist. 

“You are in pain.”

“Yes, I got shot,” she gritted out and wondered how much longer this would last. The darkness and the feeling of being rushed into the unknown were becoming increasingly unpleasant.

“Can you not lessen it? Why did you not say?”

“My magic is… drained. And it’s not… your responsibility.” 

He was silent a moment and she thought that was the end of it, but then he spoke again. “There is no need for you to suffer. Let me heal you.”

Though she hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask, she wouldn’t turn down the offer. “Alright.”

He shifted his grip on her and then she felt the spell start flowing from his hand on her back, winding its way across to her chest and loosening the pinched feeling in her ribs before threading slowly down her stomach, dipping low across her hip, and down her leg to the arrow wound. She’d been healed many times before, by many hands - maybe it was just the darkness and the force of the water that made this spell feel so much more intimate. Her heart beat faster, even as the rest of her body relaxed, and she wondered if he could feel her the way she’d felt him, if his magic just worked that way. Even if he could, he probably had no desire to, she reminded herself. He’d made no secret of his disdain for her people. Still, he had helped her when he’d had no need to.

“Thank you,” she said, as the wash of his magic dissipated.

“It was nothing.”

As the water continued to swirl around them, Nepenthe knew that any true fight between them would be over before she could even summon a spell. He had access to power beyond anything she’d managed. And either Solas had always hidden the true extent of his skill, or he’d still been unaccustomed to working magic with the Veil in place. She recalled the time he’d accidentally set his own coat on fire... Abelas said he had to relearn magic, perhaps he’d simply had longer than Solas to practice. Presumably, he’d been in and out of uthenera for eons while Solas slept. Though, if his power at the Crossroads had been any indication, Solas - no - Fen’Harel, had found a way to get a lot more powerful.

Slowly, the water began to drop and as her head was uncovered, she opened her eyes, blinking. The surroundings were different from the area they’d just left - the ground was higher and rockier, and the trees blazed with yellow leaves that flipped in the breeze, revealing their pale undersides. More leaves covered the ground, creating a golden carpet over the twining roots. She wondered how far they had come, and whether it was deeper into the Wilds or closer to the Hinterlands. The sun was up, but the day was overcast and the sky looked the same shade of pearl gray in all directions. Impossible to tell which direction was East. 

She was still tightly tucked against Abelas as the water drained to her waist, her arms locked around him, her hips pressed to his thighs. It had been… a while since she’d even had this much contact with a man. Not since the fling Iron Bull had helped discreetly arrange after Solas left. The elf hadn’t even known who she was, always disguised, barely speaking. The affair had not lasted long before it made her feel even lonelier. 

Her feet came to rest on the stony river bottom and they stopped as the rest of the water from the spell rushed off, sloshing over the banks, and the barrier dissipated. The river was low here, barely even a stream. Perhaps that was why the spell had stopped.

Abelas’s grip on her loosened and she quickly dropped her arms to her sides, losing her footing on the riverbed. He tightened his arms around her again. “Careful _ molain_.” 

She frowned up at him. “Still not a mouse. And I still owe you a story if you’re sticking around.” She turned, trying to limp toward the bank. “Are you?” He tucked his arm behind her, helping her toward a large rock and lowering her onto it.

“You need someone to remove the arrow. And you will not be able to walk much for at least a fortnight. Unless you have several week’s worth of food in there,” he gestured toward her pack, “you will need help hunting.”

She could have pressed it, but he was not wrong. Extracting the arrow would cause more trauma to her leg and although healing spells could help with the pain and more minor injuries, there was a risk of her doing lasting damage or hemorrhaging if she simply kept dulling the pain in order to travel sooner. If he wanted to stay while she healed for whatever reason, she would not dissuade him. Beyond the practical considerations, having more time to learn the truth about her history was undeniably appealing.

The weight of her pack pulled her attention back to the orb concealed there. She’d have to keep it hidden, but she could think of no way to travel more quickly. 

“I am going to scout for a safer place to make camp. We traveled quite far, but I do not want to be tracked so easily.” With that he turned, creating a faintly glowing pathway that spread out over the ground and he ran along it without leaving a trace. 

Once he’d disappeared over a rise, she gingerly lowered herself to the leaf covered ground and removed her pack so she could lean against the rock. One of the Sentinel’s arrows was still sticking out of her pack and she gripped it with her fist before wrenching it down to break it. She removed the pieces to study the arrow head. It had a jagged tip, made of some kind of metal, loosely attached with sinew. That did not bode well for removing the arrow in her leg. There was something red flecked on the tip of it, and she scratched at it with her fingernail, but it did not come off and she tucked the pieces into her pack so they would not be left behind for anyone to discover. She fished around for her flask and something to eat. When her fingers brushed the orb, she flinched away, then found what she’d been looking for - Edda’s package. Had it really been only a day since she was at their house? 

She unwrapped a mudweed cake and studied it. Her stomach growled and she shrugged, taking a bite. 

“Ah, fuck,” she spat, nearly gagging. The taste was horribly bitter with an overwhelming punch of sage, and as she continued to try to chew it, the dried leaves became slimy and tough. With a swing of water, she swallowed it down, shuddering. She managed to choke down the rest of it, but they’d definitely need to find something else to eat because despite what Edda insisted, sage did not make these things slightly more edible. 

She shifted against the rock, getting more comfortable. There was so much she needed to think through - more Sentinels, and red lyrium, and missing seals that had Abelas so worried. So much to think through and she was so tired. 

Her eyes snapped open as something touched her leg and she flicked a barrier over herself, readying a spell. Then she saw it was just Abelas, crouched next to her, examining the arrow wound. He had one hand raised nonchalantly, ready to counter her spell, wisps of smoke rising from his fingertips. She shook out her hand and released the magic, realizing she must have fallen asleep. She sighed and stretched, a crick already forming in her back.

“We should move,” he said. “I found a place to make camp. It is not that far, but it will be faster if I carry you.”

“You don’t have to carry me, Abelas,” she insisted.

“Do not make my job harder. If the arrowhead detaches from the shaft…”

“It may anyway,” she interrupted grimly. “The sinews are loose. If you can’t push it out, it will come right off.”

“Of course they would wish to inflict as much pain as possible,” he muttered, bending down and grabbing her pack. “_Fenedhis_. Why is this so heavy? What are you carrying?”

She blanched, looking down at her slightly wet boots and then up over his shoulder. “Books. I like to read.” Again, not a total lie. But why should it matter so much to her if she did lie? She didn’t owe him anything. Even if she’d told him before that she had always been honest with him. Even if all the powerful figures around him did nothing but lie and he was caught in the web as much as she. 

“And you carried them with you all this way? What kinds of books?” he asked as he loosened the straps and put her pack on. He must have left his at camp.

“I have one on glyphs and one is kind of a weird cookbook. But I like to read anything really. I didn't have much choice growing up - we swapped books with other clans and sometimes I could trade a partial skein for one in town, but I never really got to choose what I read.”

He helped her to her feet, then bent down and slipped his arm behind her knees. “Ready?” he asked, and when she rolled her eyes, he picked her up in one smooth movement. She tried not to resent him for making her feel completely powerless, even as a small part of her was grateful to not be in charge of everything for a little while. He set off into the woods, creating another glowing pathway that dissolved behind them as she watched.

“That changed at Skyhold” she continued, talking to cover the awkwardness of having to be carried. “There’s a huge library there now. We were able to buy a lot, other things were donated or borrowed. Plant lore, magical theory, a lot of religious texts, but they came in handy trying to figure out the nuances of the Chantry and Andrastism. I mean, anything you could think of, we could get books about it.”

He snorted derisively. “I can think of a lot of things. Is that what passes for a grand library these days? Plant lore and shem religion?”

She closed her mouth, the rebuke making her flush. Narrowing her eyes at his profile, she said evenly, “It was good enough for Solas.”

He said nothing and she glared at the curve of his ear, only inches from her face. He had a small gold cuff in the top edge that she hadn’t noticed before. But there was nothing different about the way he looked, nothing that would single him out as anything other than a particularly tall modern elf. “Why do you hate us?” she whispered.

He kept his eyes on the path in front of them and did not answer. Clenching her jaw, she turned to look back over his shoulder again, focusing on the river growing smaller behind them without really seeing it. She suddenly wished that he would just put her down and leave. She would manage on her own somehow.

“I do not hate you,” he finally said. “I hate what my people have been reduced to. I mourn for the world you should have had. For what you should have been.”

“We’re not less than you,” she said angrily. “The blood of Elvhenan has not been lost - we’ve survived, endured - and that’s a strength, not a weakness.”

“You should not have _ needed _ to,” he snapped. “This is… It is an incomplete world. Split. Unbalanced. Cut off. When the _ i've'an'aria _ falls, it will be whole again.”

He was breathing hard now, heading up a steeper incline toward a rocky outcropping. The blood thrummed in her veins and the points where her body touched his only increased her annoyance. 

“You can’t have it both ways, Abelas! Didn’t Solas raise the Veil because it would have been worse without it? And now you’re acting like _ this _ is the darkest possible outcome, when from the little I’ve learned about the Evanuris, they were ruining your world before the Veil was even in place.”

His face was impassive as they reached the bottom of a short cliff. He walked along it until they came to a narrow cleft that cut back into the hill - probably just wide enough for two bedrolls to fit side by side, and slightly deeper. Walls of stone rose up sharply on either side of the dirt floor and met overhead, providing a natural shelter. Abelas’s pack rested against the back wall. 

He lowered her to the ground inside the shallow cave, then stood back up, his head nearly touching the ceiling. He looked out the opening, where the land fell away enough to see the tops of trees in the distance. “You are clinging to a world that should not exist,” he said stonily.

“And you are clinging to a world that _does_ _not_ exist!”

He turned toward her, finally, and met her eyes. “If you saw everything you loved destroyed, and had a chance to right it, would you not do so?”

She bit her lip, her fingers tightening on the edge of her cloak. “I have seen everything I loved destroyed. And _ nothing _ will bring them back. There is no righting that past. There’s just enduring.”

“Do not speak to me about enduring,” he roared. “You cannot imagine what has been lost. This,” he gestured toward the horizon, “all of this. It can be real without being right.”

She brought her hand to her forehead, rubbing her temples with her thumb and forefinger, his words echoing in her mind. Real without being right. It was like the tainted future she’d been sucked into by Alexius’s time magic in Redcliffe. The world had been collapsing - the Breach stretched across the whole sky and a demon army swarmed the land. Her friends had been imprisoned, and tortured, and corrupted by red lyrium. Her friends had been dying. What was it that Leliana had said there? 

_ This is all pretend to you, some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The whole world suffered. It was real. _

And yet, when it came to it, Nepenthe had not hesitated to undo it, to set it back to what _ she _ knew to be true. Is that what this world felt like to Abelas? Like some future so removed from what it should have been that it was like a waking nightmare?

She took a deep breath, then cut it short, wincing as pain shot across her ribs. She looked up to him, but he had his back to her.

“Then what happens to all of us?” she asked quietly. “Why does Solas get to decide this? I know he’s trying to right the destruction he caused, but this can’t be the way. Is this really what you want your purpose to be? To dismantle a world?”

“You do not have any idea about my purpose.”

“Then tell me! Tell me how this solves anything and isn’t just another god mage rising to power and destroying the… Ah - fuck!” she broke off, bringing her hand to her ribs. Something felt like it had pulled loose and she closed her eyes, hand trembling. She drew her magic quietly, letting it soothe the ache in her chest, wishing it could do the same for the ache in her heart. 

When she opened her eyes, he was by her side. “We should remove the arrow,” he said, his tone matching the weariness in his eyes. “And then rest.” 

Her gaze dropped to the broken shaft in her leg and she nodded. Delaying would not avoid the inevitable. There would be time to unravel the Veil and Solas’s plans.

He went to the back of the cave and retrieved his pack, carefully digging inside until eventually he had pulled out a water flask, a cloth, a leather wrapped kit, and a small knife. 

“They didn’t take your knife?”

“Secret compartment.”

She snorted. “Helpful.”

She took off her pack and her cloak, arranging it under her leg to catch the blood.

After he brought the supplies to her side, Abelas hesitated with the blade of the knife hovering over her leg. “Do you want to cut the material away or should I?”

“It’s easier with two hands.”

He used the knife to gently cut her leathers away from the entry point, then looked up at her, ready to begin. She nodded and he rested his fingertips on the bare skin of her thigh, using a spell to help numb the area.

When he twisted the arrow, she flinched, but it wasn’t as painful as she expected. And the arrow moved. It was good news - the tip was not embedded in bone. It could be pushed through. He took a deep breath and was about to start applying pressure when she stopped him. “Wait. Later, will you tell me?”

He kept his eyes on his hands. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me… about your life. About Elvhenan, and… what happened.”

His eyes flicked over her face, and then he bowed his head, sighing. “Yes, if you wish to learn, I will tell you what I can.”

“Thank you.” She settled herself back and closed her eyes, not wishing to see the next part of the procedure. “Abelas,” she said wearily, “if I look down after this and my leg is missing, I swear by all the gods, real or not, I am coming for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've'an'aria = the Veil (lit. Fade barrier)  
Syla, molain = breathe, little mouse
> 
> My Brain: What are you so happy about?  
Me: They're finally alone in the woods....  
My Brain: Please stop rubbing your hands together and giggling like that. You're an adult.  
Me: oh my god, it’s happening!  
My Brain: I give up. 
> 
> If its of any interest, [this was the song](https://open.spotify.com/track/0ueLCUjfGszdZGIf9iPy7h) I had on repeat while writing most of this chapter.
> 
> You can also [find me on Tumblr](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/).


	11. In a Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternally grateful to [Johaerys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys/) who beta read this chapter!

It was a strange intimacy, he thought, the intimacy of blood. The intimacy of healing. Nothing but hands and hope holding back death. That at least had not changed in centuries. 

As he scrubbed his forearms in the stream, her blood clouded around his fingers, diluting and swirling off in ribbons. She was sleeping now, tucked into her bedroll, aided by a concoction from his kit which she’d been reluctant to take at first. Luck had been with her - the arrow had passed through without hitting bone or a major blood vessel but it would still take several weeks to fully heal, and without careful attention, the wound could still become infected. He removed his hands from the water, red from the chill of it but finally clean, the last evidence of her pain and his care washed away. 

He shook his hands to dry them, his hands that had stopped the river of her life from pouring out onto the ground. What orders, what duty had truly compelled him, he wondered. A parting warning from Fen’Harel? 

She should be nothing. An echo. But she was an echo that only became louder the longer he was with her. An echo that amplified rather than faded away and he could feel her still - the slow exploration of her magic, the solid press of her body against his, the weight of her eyes when she asked him to tell her something real. 

_ Please_. 

He splashed water onto his face and rubbed his eyes, pushing the thoughts of her away. 

Her bloody cloak was still soaking in the river, weighed down with a stone, and he gathered the sodden material to wash it next. His fingers trembled as he twisted the cloth, sore from applying pressure to her leg for so long while his magic worked to suture the wound. He draped the cloak over a branch and grabbed the edge of it. As he dried it with a spell, curls of steam and the wet smell of wool rose into the air. It was simple work that reminded him of most of his duties since the fall of Arlathan - healing, cleaning, mending. Simple work that kept his mind focused on completing one task, and then the next, and then the next, so that he did not let himself think of other things. Before heading back up the ridge, he set a ward, then refilled his water flask and checked to make sure all traces of blood were gone from the rocks. 

He walked through pale trunks as leaves shook loose in the breeze and fell around him - a shower of gold that caught in his hair and added another delicate layer to the forest floor. A layer that would in turn be covered by another, and another, and another, until undisturbed and forgotten, it would all gently rot away. Even his footsteps did not spoil this slow cycle of decay as he walked upon the shimmering, ephemeral pathway - his presence here, as in all places, invisible.

Moving through this world, but not part of it. 

When he arrived back at their camp, she was still sleeping soundly, only her face visible from within the cocoon of her bedroll. He deliberated a moment, then spread her cloak overtop her sleeping form. An extra layer might be needed with the chill in the air. 

He walked a few paces to either side of the door to set additional wards. It remained to be seen whether the Sentinels would bother tracking them, but they certainly seemed vindictive enough to do so. Still, he had deliberately moved the water spell off of the main river and along a smaller branch, and between that and the precautions with the Fade pathways, he hoped it would be enough to make them untraceable. And once he’d returned to the Crossroads, Fen’Harel could send a force to destroy the last remnants of Andruil’s servants.

He kicked off his boots and then released the buckles on his armor. It was unlikely they would encounter anything out here that would require full plate armor to defeat, and so he removed it piece by piece and made a neat stack in the rear of the cave. First the gilded plate armor, followed by the mail, followed by the quilted underlayer, until he was only wearing his linen briefs. The thin material provided no warmth in the cool air and he fought back a shiver. He’d gotten used to the mild climate of Mythal’s temple. He had warmer clothes in his pack though and he rushed to put on loden wool trousers and a knit sweater that he had been given when he joined Fen’Harel. It was warm and soft enough that he wore it, despite the loose fit and the obviously rushed construction.

He climbed into his bedroll and lay on his back for a moment before turning stiffly to look at her. Her face was only inches from his own, and he realized he’d forgotten to wipe the blood away from the corner of her mouth. He sighed, weighing whether it was worth it to get his water flask and risk waking her. 

She was softer in sleep. The tangled curls of her hair fell gently across her face and her lips were loosely parted as she breathed in a gentle rhythm. Though he could still see dark shadows under her eyes, the tension and worry were gone. The fierce searching subdued. The many, many questions held back. Better to let her sleep, he decided. 

What was she doing out here all alone? Thousands had followed her at the height of the Inquisition, a force that traversed across Thedas. And despite that, she had come in supplication at Mythal’s temple, as legions of weak-minded, ambitious thieves had not bothered to do in the turning of ages. Though, perhaps it was easier to ask permission when you had the power to direct the outcome no matter the answer. But she had released that power, dissolved her army. And she had not taken the power of the Vir’Abelasan for herself. It made no sense. 

One of many things that suddenly made no sense. As he closed his eyes, finally succumbing to exhaustion, he clung to what he knew. _ If Fen’Harel succeeds, molain, it will be better than this. _

When he opened his eyes in the Fade, the first thing he noticed was that he was still dressed in the wool trousers and knit sweater. The second thing he noticed was the mosaics set into eluvian frames. They were similar to the ones of the Evanuris he’d seen for millennia in Mythal’s temple, but these were twisted and terrifying. The figures seemed to loom out of the frame, their clawed hands too large, their eyes luminous and empty, their mouths black, devouring holes. They were set in a semi circle, all focused on something behind him. He sensed a presence there and he tensed. A demon? This was an unfamiliar part of the Fade that he’d somehow stumbled into. Anything was possible. He turned slowly to follow the line of their gaze. And immediately relaxed. 

It was just her.

She had her back to him, or to the mosaics more likely, and apparently hadn’t noticed his arrival. She sat on a rock ledge above a clear pool, feet dangling above the water as tendrils of steam curled up and around her. It was… almost the Vir’Abelassan, but like the mosaics, had been contorted. It was still shallow and round and surrounded by high, vine scrawled walls, but the overhanging ledge was an addition. As was the steaming water. 

She was no longer wearing her leather armor and was instead clad in a simple lavender dress that dipped low across her back as she hunched over. He could have counted her vertebrae between the thin straps of the garment but she was not exactly emaciated - the muscles flexed in her arms as she gripped the edge of the ledge hard enough to turn her knuckles white. She still thought of herself as having two hands here, he noticed.

He glanced around, unsure if she had drawn him to this particular place or if it was something else. Unsure if he should remain. She somehow sensed him then and twisted to look at him over her shoulder, eyes wide and fearful.

Her face softened as soon as she saw him and she smiled sadly. “So Sorrow comes to find me. I’m not surprised, but the form is a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” She tucked a stray curl of her hair behind her ear and then her smile twisted, her mouth drawing into a line. The Fade amplified her emotions and even from several paces away, he could feel her. The swirling loss and confusion. But he didn’t understand what she had meant. She breathed out, in control once more. “You can join me, if you like,” she said gently, tipping her head to indicate a spot next to her. 

He had known nothing but bloodshed for an age and had faced unspeakable horrors. This simple invitation should not make him feel like he was headed into battle, heart pounding. And so to prove to himself that it did not, he sat beside her, close enough that the edge of her dress touched his thigh. 

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and was surprised to see her chest heaving as she gulped in air, her gaze focused on the water below. She shook her head and brought her hands to her lips, and came undone. 

A sob escaped between her fingers. “I don’t think I can do it. I don’t know how to be this hard all the time. This angry. This lost. I don’t know how to fight him. I have no army, no power. I don’t know how to wield…” She squeezed her eyes shut and tears ran down her face. “I don’t know how to save everyone again. I just thought...I thought I was done.” She took in a deep shuddering breath.

Abelas did not move. Was this some kind of trick? What game was she playing here?

She continued, still looking down into the water. “I tried to make things better. But I don’t know if I did. After Corypheus was defeated, after the rifts were closed, after the throne was settled in Orlais, after the Mage and Templar war was over… gods, just after _ everything _ we did - I thought that maybe the world would be okay for a while. That maybe something I did mattered. But I made so many mistakes.” Her voice broke. “So many. Maybe I should have drunk from the Vir’Abelasan. Maybe that would have made a difference. I don’t know. I don’t know how this gets better. I don’t know why I am the one tasked with this.” 

As she spoke, he began to feel all of her emotions - her worry, her doubt, her grief, her rage, her helplessness - as they seeped into the space around her, between them, inside him. It was no trick, at least not how she felt. She looked up at him then, and he was briefly lost, a well staring at the sky. Time seemed to slow down and he studied her unguardedly, leisurely, like he might once have done when he had all the time in the world. Her tear-soaked lashes clung together, framing gray eyes that were like a ring of ashes, but flecked with silver at the center, some unextinguished flame still burning in the embers. Her lips were swollen, bitten red and slightly parted. High cheekbones. A sharp jawline set off by her short hair. Beautiful, he realized. As beautiful and raw as the sea, with its surface reflecting the stars and its depths unknown.

A single tear rolled down her cheek and without thinking, he brought his hand up to wipe it away. As he rubbed his thumb across her cheek and down the side of her face, she closed her eyes and sighed, like his touch was an absolution. 

And then suddenly she jerked back, her expression shifting to panic. He started to apologize as her eyes flicked over him and she retraced the path his thumb had taken with her fingers. “Oh, fenedhis,” she breathed. “You’re really here. You’re not a spirit, are you?”

He blinked and the spell was broken, his thumb still wet with her tears. “Not in the way you mean it, no.”

She scrambled away, putting distance between them. “How?” she demanded. “How are you here?”

“This was your doing. This is not a version of the Vir’Abelasan that my mind would project. Somehow you reached and pulled me into your dream.“ It was the best explanation he could come up with. Reaching certainly seemed to come naturally to her. When she had been able to dispel the barrier, he had felt… not proud exactly, but not surprised either. This though, managing to pull him into her Fade dream, this was surprising. 

“Has this not happened before?” he asked, digging more than he cared to admit.

“No.” She glared at him, as if it was somehow his fault, and did not elaborate. “Why did you...Why did you let me go on?” 

“I did not understand at first. And then…”

“Then, what?”

“Then it seemed like you needed to say it.”

“Not to you!” she scoffed.

“To who then?”

She laughed bitterly and shook her head. The curl came loose and she tucked it back again.

It struck him then, how alone she was, still holding onto the responsibility for saving her world. Her army of thousands was gone. The companions that had accompanied her to the temple had not come with her into the Korcari Wilds. Whatever had been between her and Fen’Harel was clearly over. And she had hidden her pain away so carefully that she only revealed it in the Fade to what she thought was a spirit. 

But she was still out here, ferociously searching for some way to prevail. She had not given up. She had not been forced to seal herself away in a temple that had become a tomb, where each year that scraped by dulled the edge of hope that cut through utter despair. The Vir’Abelasan had bound him to that duty, he reminded himself, clenching his jaw. It was not so easily abandoned to wander the world in search of a solution. Anyway, a solution had found him… eventually. 

She stood up and started to walk away.

“Why did you not drink from the Vir’Abelasan?” he called after her.

She stopped, raising her eyebrows. “You want to discuss this now?” 

“Yes. Tell me and I will show you something from the past.”

She crossed her arms and thought for a moment. “Fine,” she bit out. “I didn’t drink because I didn’t want to be bound. Your turn.”

“Not yet. You have to give me a real answer.”  
  
She looked at him distrustfully. “Why should I believe that what you show me will be the truth? The Fade can show many things.”

“I will show you what I experienced as truth. You are correct though, someone else may see things differently.” They could have spent decades debating the nuances of the Fade, so he hoped she would accept a simple answer. It was, of course, possible that she was maneuvering for an advantage, for some information that would help her thwart Fen’Harel’s plan, but he couldn’t see the harm in shedding light on events long forgotten.

Her jaw worked as she contemplated this. “Give me your word. You will not deliberately lie to me or lie by omission. Anything you show me will be as true as you know it to be.”

“If you give me yours in return. You will answer what I ask truthfully,” he said.

“As long as it does not impact the safety of my people or compromise any active operations.”

He conceded the point by tipping his head. “Agreed, and the same applies to what I show you.” 

“Then give me your word. I trust you will honor it.” But the way she spoke the last part made it somewhere between a question and a statement and her eyes searched his face uncertainly.

“You have my word,” he promised, and she visibly relaxed. She was still soft under the hard exterior she tried to put on, and had clearly suffered for being more trusting in the past. Considering that, he appreciated that she still accepted nothing more than his word. 

“Then you have mine.” With the agreement reached, she came back to the ledge and sat down again, though farther from him than before. 

“As to the Vir’Abelasan then,” he said. “There was power there. Power that could have helped you and shown you all you wished to know about the past.”  
  
“At what price?”

“Indeed. No boon of Mythal’s was ever granted without cost.”

“I was a valuable asset - the only one with the anchor, the only one who could close the rifts. Not to mention a religious figurehead and the leader of one of the most powerful organizations in Thedas.” She leaned back on her hands, frowning. “Corypheus was able to reach me in the Fade while I was unconscious. He manipulated my memories, suppressed things I’d lived through. He made me forget what happened at the conclave, how I acquired the anchor. And I had no connection to him. He was just powerful.” 

She stopped, reliving something, and he waited patiently until she was ready to go on. “And then, in the raw Fade, I encountered a demon so strong it was able to twist perceptions of what was real. And I don’t just mean in the Fade, in the waking world, too. Corypheus used it as a conduit to spread the calling to all the Gray Wardens - a signal that they would soon succumb to the blight,” she explained quickly. “Through this, Corypheus was able to manipulate them into horrible acts - blood magic, killing each other, trying to raise a demon army. So who is to say a god wouldn’t have done the same? Twisted my perceptions or compelled me to serve some unknown purpose. From my position, it could have affected most of Thedas.” 

She paused and rubbed her palm where the mark had once been. “Though, who is to say a god hasn’t already done that in some other way?” she muttered.

He watched the steam rise from the surface of the water, like a reflection of her turbulent thoughts. “I do understand your reasoning, but Mythal would not do that. Not to some dark purpose.”

“I didn’t say dark. Unknown. I thought to avoid being used as a tool in someone else’s agenda.” She picked up a stone and forcefully threw it into the water and he flinched. “And how do you know what she would or would not do?” she continued. “You didn’t even know her spirit was still here. She hid herself away even from you. How are you not angry about that? Do you trust her so blindly?” 

Anger swirled around him and for a moment he was not sure who the feeling was coming from more strongly. They both needed to control their stronger emotions here or risk attracting a demon who would feed off of such power. 

“_Atisha molain_. I will answer.” He closed his eyes for a moment, recentering himself. “It is not just trust - it is knowing. I know her. I was bound to her service for ages. She cared about people, she cared about the world, and she tried to make things better for all Elvhenan.”

“Did she compel you to do things? Things you didn’t want to do?”

“No. And before you ask, I would have known. I chose this life when I took her vallaslin. I believed in what she stood for. I served her ideals. There was protection in being bound and honor in serving as a Sentinel.”

“Then why would she abandon you afterward?” she asked gently.

He rubbed his face. Why had he started down this path with her? Sometimes it was best not to question. To just accept. “She may have been nothing but a wisp at first. And then, as you claim, she was hosted by this witch.” 

“I don’t claim it. She is. And more than hosted it sounded like. They are... entwined. The voices from the well confirmed it to Morrigan.”

“Then perhaps Mythal’s spirit was too weak to influence her actions.” 

“Or perhaps she found a kindred spirit searching for vengeance and through Asha'bellanar has influenced events in this world for centuries. Asha'bellanar said as much herself. ‘Sometimes with a shove,’ is I believe how she phrased it. After all that, would Mythal still be the...woman you knew?” 

“She was more than a woman. But I don’t know. I cannot think of another instance when a spirit was bound to a human in the waking world for so long. Perhaps Mythal had good reason for staying hidden. Perhaps it was her will that drove this Asha’bellanar to influence events the way she did. There may be some larger purpose to her actions. We may never know.”

Steam rose between them and she waved it away impatiently. “Why did the Well go silent, Abelas?”

He shifted uncomfortably, unsure if admitting what he suspected would reveal too much.

“You know why.” She looked at him, waiting for him to go on. When he did not, she narrowed her eyes and filled in the answer herself. “Fen’Harel did something.” His silence seemed to be confirmation enough. “Doesn’t it bother you? Knowing he has misled you?”

“The only thing I know with certainty is that he is the _ only _ one who can repair the world and bring back what was lost.”

She sighed and ran her fingers up over her forehead and scrubbed the tangled mass of her curls. “We’re about to find ourselves at an impasse again.” 

He took her hint and dropped the subject. There would be time to discuss Fen’Harel. He glanced around, searching for a safer topic.

“Your mosaics are...unusual. I have not seen those particular designs before.”

She turned to look at him, an unreadable expression on her face. Then she snorted. “You mean they’re wrong. I know.” She got up and walked over to the distorted figures. After a moment, he followed her. 

“Is this how you remember them?” He ran his finger along the glass tiles that made up one of the clawed hands.

She shrugged and gestured loosely toward the frame. “Evidently. They seem a bit judgmental, don’t you think?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t look so surprised. Surely you can imagine why I might be feeling _unworthy._ After all, I’m nothing but a shadow wearing vallaslin.”

She’d said the same thing before when they first met in the Wilds and suddenly it clicked. It was what he’d said to her at the temple. She’d held his exact words for more than two years. 

“I’m…” 

“Don’t apologize.” She waved her hand dismissively. “You meant it. Ironically, it was Asha’bellanar who told me the kindest thing, ‘So young and vibrant. You do the people proud,’” she mimicked. 

He stilled, a strange tightness in his chest. It had been one of the things Mythal used to say. _ You do the people proud. _He could hear her voice. How were her words being echoed back to him through a human witch and a Dalish elf? Why had she left him there for so long, guarding her Well, only to have it pass beyond reach? He leaned against the frame of the eluvian, resting his forehead against the rough wood. Why had she revealed herself only at the last moment, if it was as he suspected and she had passed her spirit and her power to Fen’Harel? He breathed out. 

It was bigger than him. As always, it was bigger. He was but a piece of a whole. If by his sacrifice the realms of the elves remained intact, then he had done his duty. And if Mythal thought this Dalish elf was worthy of praise…

A light touch settled on his arm and he turned his head slightly. She was mirroring his posture, leaning against the front of the mosaic, ignoring the tiled eyes that bore into the side of her face. And her expression was concerned, questioning. Once again, showing him a compassion he had no reason to expect.

“I have misjudged you,” he said quietly. “And I apologize.”

She regarded him silently for a moment. “It’s not the first time I’ve been underestimated. But thank you,” she whispered back, then straightened up and squared her shoulders. “Tell me what was lost. Explain the standard that my world is measured against.” She tipped her head. “Please.”

He nearly smiled at the tacked on word, as he drew back from the frame.

“I can do better than tell you. Though, it may feel a little strange. I need to…” He frowned, unsure how to explain it to her. “You’ll have to let go of this idea of the temple, so I can reshape it. Try to let your mind go blank. Do you understand?” When she nodded hesitantly, he closed his eyes and reached out, feeling for the edges of her mind’s projection and the spirit reflecting it. When he had the shape of it, he focused. As the spirit became attuned to his thoughts, the steaming water calmed and the mosaics started to shrink and retreat to their proper places.

And then he felt the transformation abruptly stall, pulled back by something. He opened his eyes and found hers already locked on him, wide and worried.

She was having difficulty releasing control of the dream. It made sense, but it might have unexpected consequences here. As her distress increased, he felt the dream start to tear between them, strange blurred spots appearing around them. The spirit was agitated as well - mostly attuned to his thoughts, but caught on hers, like a snag that would unravel the whole cloth. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he suddenly let go, and they didn’t seem to be waking up. He faltered for a moment, unsure what to say to help her trust him in this. 

“Let go, _ molain_. _ Nuva venas atisha amahn. Atisha ne i’na ’ma arla._” [May you find serenity here. Peace will be with you in my home.]

Why had that come back to him now? It was an old phrase. A way of welcoming a close friend into your home. A promise of trust and peace. He hadn’t said it since before his service began. Though, he supposed welcoming her into the temple that had been his home for so many years was somehow appropriate. 

“Let go,” he said softly as the ground beneath them began to flicker and a high pitched whine split the air. “Let go.” He slowly reached for her hand, giving her a chance to withdraw. When she did not, he gripped her fingers, her hand enclosed by his larger one. “Let go.”

With a pained expression, she closed her eyes and blew out her breath.

He felt the spirit snap onto his thoughts and the dream instantly stabilized. She met his eyes and he nodded his understanding. He released her hand slowly as she turned away, eyes searching, watching his memory take shape.

The fresh, sweet scent of _ nydha felgara _ flowers filled the air, their white, heart-shaped blooms spilling out of wide containers placed around the edge of the room. The stone walls of the temple rose from the ground, arching gracefully overhead as the ceiling formed in a great, gold-lined dome. The center of it was aligned over the Vir’Abelasan and open to the night sky, which was radiant with the light of a thousand stars the waking world would never see. The stars of Elvhenan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Atisha, molain = Calmly, little mouse  
i've'an'aria = the Veil (lit. Fade barrier)  
Nuva venas atisha amahn. Atisha ne i’na ’ma arla. = May you find serenity here. Peace will be with you in my home.  
Nydha felgara = Night bloom
> 
> Come say hi [on Tumblr](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/).


	12. Halam'shivanas

It had been thousands of years since he had looked this far back, not since the early days of the _i've'an'aria_, when his grief was still a fresh wound. Clad in his armor once again, he looked around the temple, recreated from memory as it had appeared during a relatively peaceful period of his duty. A time before everything had been destroyed. 

He had made it night, his favorite time at the temple, and without the torches lit, the stars above provided the only illumination. Their light was reflected in the mirror flat surface of the Vir’Abelasan and cast back to the golden dome, diffusing the temple with a warm glow. It glittered off the surface of the eluvians set in a semi circle around the Well, and shone off the floor tiles, which had been set in such a way as to reflect the light back up onto the walls. 

His gaze drifted to the stars above. The stars of his home. Like with so many things, the Veil diminished them, blocking their light and energy. One more loss among so many. His throat constricted as he realized that until this moment, he had not dared to hope he would ever truly see them again.

He forgot what he had meant to show her. Maybe just this. 

“Are you alright?” she asked by his side, her voice low.

He nodded, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. After a moment, he cleared his throat and turned to face her.

“It is...I am not sure there is an exact translation. _ Silanehn'inorabelas. _ A memory that brings equal joy and sorrow is probably close.”

“_Silanehn'inorabelas,_” she repeated. “It’s a good phrase.” 

Her accent wasn’t terrible, but her pronunciation could be improved. Not that it mattered, he reminded himself. 

She turned away to examine the temple as it had once been and he watched her expression. Bright. Wondering. The light turned the curls of her hair into a softly glowing crown and highlighted the tops of her shoulders. Her dress was far simpler than anyone would have worn coming to Mythal’s temple, but she wore it with an easy confidence, and in fact, did not look... entirely out of place. Though, to access this part of the temple, she’d have needed to be either a Sentinel or another high ranking servant of Mythal’s. He dismissed the thought of her in Sentinel armor before it had a chance to fully form, lest he change the dream.

“You can do this to the Fade? Form it exactly how you want?” she wondered, looking up at the stars.

“Can you not?”

“Not to this degree of detail. It’s usually more…” She gestured loosely back and forth with her hands. “More hazy - an impression of a place, how I feel about it, rather than the exact number of stairs to the door, if that makes sense. Sometimes I know the details are wrong, but I can’t remember exactly how they appeared in the waking world.” 

“Like the mosaics,” he suggested. 

She nodded, but a veil of grief suddenly surrounded her, and it seemed like she must be thinking of something else. She turned away to inspect the white blossoms of the night-blooming _ nydha felgara _ flowers, which gleamed like tiny stars where they hung from wide containers on the walls. 

Fen’Harel had not shown her anything like this. He was sure of it now. It seemed like an oversight. With her clear interest in the past, perhaps she could have been convinced to join their cause and direct her immense resources to aid them. Not overtly, of course, but even discreetly providing cover for their operations or sourcing leads on artifacts would have been beneficial. Whatever was left of the Inquisition clearly had _ some _ reliable intelligence if she had managed to find Andruil’s temple. He paused, realizing there was a question he should have considered much earlier. 

“How did you know that Fen’Harel was planning to drop the i've'an'aria?” he asked abruptly. It was not exactly common knowledge. His forces believed that he was going to restore the elves and save them from slavery and servitude and living on the fringes of society, but the exact details were always left deliberately hazy.

She had picked a flower and was examining it by the wall. She glanced at him over her shoulder, surprised at first, but then a half smile formed on her lips. “Your turn is over. Tell me something first. Then you get another question.” 

“Have you always been this demanding?” He regarded her levelly, but a hint of amusement took the sting out of his words. 

“Me? _ You’re _ the one asking extra questions,” she teased. “And no, I’m just waiting for you to prove the value of your word.”

“My word is good, _ molain_. I didn’t give it to you lightly.”

She let the flower drop from her fingers and crossed to him, her dress whispering around her legs.

“I know,” she said, looking up at him. “And thank you for...showing me something real.” Her gratitude wrapped warmly around him, and for just a heartbeat, the boundary between their worlds seemed thinner than it had before. 

But still a boundary. And here, of all places, boundaries were to be obeyed. _ Halam'shivanas - _the sweet sacrifice of duty - that was all he had ever needed, he reminded himself. It was all he needed now.

He turned away abruptly. “Come. I will show you the temple as it once was.” 

With a gesture, the torches on the archway to the lower sanctum guttered to life, revealing that there were no fixed stairs. He created them as he would have once done, the flat boulders appearing from thin air and settling into place. 

She glanced at him curiously. “You always had to conjure the stairs? I assumed they’d just fallen to ruin.”

He led the way down, explaining over his shoulder. “It was a security measure. A specific spell, not widely known.”

He debated what to show her in the temple. She’d asked to see what had been lost. Should they start at the entrance or work their way back from here? Or go someplace she hadn’t seen before? Perhaps the courtyard with its impressive grandeur was the best place to begin. Perhaps during _ Vun Tuem'sal_, when it would have been decorated for the occasion. 

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he explained what he was going to do, and then shifted the dream, forming the entrance of the grand courtyard and the beginning of the Path of the Well of Sorrows. 

With a flick of his fingers, the immense doors slowly swung open, revealing the expanse of the temple beyond. He was rewarded with a soft gasp as she took in the view before them. 

Overhead, a dense tapestry of magical golden flowers meant to look like glass floated in the air, creating a false ceiling in the open air courtyard. Magelights were dotted along trailing vines - thousands of softly glowing pearls that caught the colors of the flowers and dappled the temple floor in shades of gold and green. She stepped in tentatively and then glanced to him. 

“You’ve seen this before, but this is the main courtyard - where petitioners would wait to begin their journey and the most public space of the temple. It’s decorated for _ Vun Tuem'sal_, a holiday we celebrated in spring to mark the transition to longer days and life renewing.”

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, and he was glad that she seemed interested. Perhaps there would still be value in recruiting her, a larger network of information would always be a blessing.

With a gesture, he indicated she was welcome to explore. 

He followed her across the tiles strewn with tiny yellow flower petals, her bare feet stirring a path through them, and trailed behind as she wandered slowly between formal gardens of canopied trees and flowering plants. 

“When are we?” she asked, pushing aside the delicate fronds of a giant fern that hung over the path.

“After the second great war, and before the last.”

“Did you live through all of them?”

“No, I was born toward the end of the second one.”

As she stopped to smell a _ fanasha _ flower, he quickly recreated its smell from memory - a heavy, almost musky scent. 

She traced her fingertip along the cylindrical blossom and a swirl of pollen released into the air. “How old does that make you?”

He hummed. “I am not sure anymore. Time passes differently when you are so deeply dreaming. I am also unfamiliar with how the current system of the ages works.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps there would be a way to figure it out, but it does not particularly matter. My life was measured by my duty, not the passage of time.”

“And before that? How old were you when… when you first entered uthenera?”

“I was 233.” He watched for her reaction. Modern elves lived to be what? 80 or so years at the most? Not even fully an adult by Elvhenan’s standards. But they did everything so _ quickly_. From his observations when he ranged out slightly farther from the temple, the amount of life they seemed to pack into those years was surprising.

She frowned. “Was that considered old then?”

“Not really. Adulthood started at the age of 100 and most elves entered uthenera around 500 years of age. So, I would have been considered not quite middle aged.” He rubbed his lip. “How old are you?”

“32, almost 33. So, not quite middle aged.” 

So young, but he supposed his measure of time no longer applied. She didn’t conduct herself like a child or even an adolescent would have in the days of Elvhenan and so he resolved to think of her as an adult. 

She mumbled something else he didn’t catch and continued along the path. He was content to watch her, curious to see what she would say about the temple. They walked past elaborate fountains that sprang from the water channels on either side of the courtyard, the falling droplets of water creating a rhythm not unlike rain. Past kinetic sculptures made from metal and magic that slowly transformed, turning from flowers to birds and back again, endlessly. Past the statues of Mythal on the stairs, with her stylized crown and dragon wings outstretched.

She took the steps to the highest platform slowly, holding onto the railing as she gazed up at the gilded statues of Mythal that towered overhead, as high as the temple walls.

“Mythal was a very strategic ruler, wasn’t she?” 

He frowned. She had been, but it was not what he had been expecting her to remark on first. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

“The statues. You’d see them from everywhere in here - a constant reminder of where you are and who is watching you.” They reached the top of the stairs and she rested her arms on the bannister, looking across the vast courtyard below them. “They represent her, but they’re not her - they’re faceless, a symbol of her power, her otherness.” 

He joined her at the balcony, leaning back against the railing. “She _ was _ powerful. She _ was _ different. She was a deity.”

Her eyes searched his face, lingering over the lines of his vallaslin. “You still have your faith,” she said wistfully.

“It is hard to lose it when you’ve walked next to a god.”

“Why do you call her a god? Solas said that…” She flicked her hand dismissively. “Nevermind. I want to hear it from you.”

He wondered what Fen’Harel had told her about Mythal, but he answered her question anyway. “What is the criteria for being a god? Power? Immortality? Mythal had those - even now after her death she endures in some form. And…she was worshipped as one.”

“So if enough people believe it, that makes it true? I was worshipped as the Herald of Andraste, and I certainly wasn’t. I barely even understood that religion until I was thrown in the middle of it.”

He tipped his head, considering. “How do you know you weren’t her Herald?”

She rolled her eyes. “Not you, too.”

“I don’t know what the shems worship, maybe they are powerful beings or spirits as well. Something that rose after the _ i’ve’an’aria_. Or survived its creation. There may be a path laid before your feet and forces at work to keep you on it.”

“I don’t want there to be forces at work! I want to believe that I’m in charge of my own life.”

“Perhaps if enough people believe that, it will make it so.”

She squinted up at him, “Are you...are you teasing me?”

He hummed noncommittally. “Maybe. But I do believe there is more to the world than what we can see. Is there not some comfort that perhaps there is a predetermined place for each of us?”

She rubbed her face with her hands. “No. I don’t know. But the universe can fuck right off if this is the path it chose for me.” 

She sighed deeply and pushed off the railing to straighten up. “Leave it for now. Show me what the rest of this intimidating place really looked like?”

“Intimidating?” He focused on the emotions swirling around her, but they were complex and he couldn’t figure out what she felt most strongly. 

“Yes - I imagine I feel the way a petitioner was supposed to feel.”

He frowned. He had not meant for her to feel that way - awestruck and impressed, maybe, but not intimidated. And despite that, she’d picked up on the nuances of the temple design and subtle manipulations of power. It was...not at all what he thought he’d been showing her. A good reminder that being young was not the same as being naive. He would be wise to think more carefully about what he showed her in the future. 

She gestured through the doorway that led to the Hall of Shrines. “And if the floor puzzles were a requirement of being seen, then I’d also feel anxious and mentally exhausted. It’s an effective way to chip someone down. To make them feel small, and unworthy, and grateful for any mercy they’re shown.”

How different it all looked through her eyes. He’d thought that showing her would make her understand, but instead it was making it worse - the context of everything had been lost. Was it even worth trying to educate her? But with everything her people had already gotten wrong, he couldn’t let it be misinterpreted right in front of him.

“The floor puzzles were not meant to exhaust, but to provide an exercise in mindfulness,” he explained, walking through the doors toward the first puzzle. “They were a way of focusing, of leaving the outside world behind to collect your thoughts and reflect. Some petitioning Mythal for justice hid jealousy, accusing those who had done them no wrong. Others burned with wrath for imagined slights. She saw their weak hearts, and they were punished accordingly.”

“So, these puzzles were a way for petitioners to reassess their motives?”

“That, and a chance to meditate. Sometimes petitioners or scholars would spend many days just walking the paths and thinking. Sometimes it was enough to solve a problem without Mythal’s interference.”

She slowed her steps, looking across the immense room and up at the walls that were covered in bricks shaped so precisely that no mortar had been used to lay them. Despite what she felt about the statues, it was place meant to evoke a sense of peace. “Could anyone come before her?” she asked.

“In theory they could, but only specific cases would have been judged by Mythal herself. Most small matters were left to local _ rajelan. _If the matter could not be settled there, it would have then gone to one of Mythal’s temples to be judged by a high priest. Only from there would it be heard by Mythal if a judgement could not be reached, or if those involved wished to appeal the decision. It was a serious matter to come before her.” He began moving towards the puzzle again and she followed.

“What happened after Mythal’s judgement?” she asked.

“It depended. If Mythal ruled against the petitioner, there would be consequences. But those coming to her with clear minds and open hearts were granted judgment and protection. The accused then had a chance to present their case and afterward Mythal made her final judgement, which was binding. Some were fined, some were imprisoned, some taken into Mythal’s service, others… the penalty would have been exile or death by...” He trailed off when he realized she had stopped several feet behind him and was looking ahead to the statue of the wolf by the first puzzle.

“The path of pride,” he explained cautiously. “A place for a petitioner to...” 

“Did you know who he was?” she interrupted. “When we came here before?” Her hands curled into fists by her sides. Betrayal, and grief, and regret whispered around her.

He sighed. He had known it would come up. “No. I only recognized him as one of the Elvhen, not as Fen’Harel. He looked different before.”

She would not meet his eyes. “But you knew him before?”

“I knew who he was. But our paths did not cross often. Mythal had many temples, as well as several private residences. My duty kept me here for the most part.”

Her jaw worked and then she swallowed thickly. “Can you show me something in the temple I haven’t seen before?” Even the effort she put in did not entirely mask the tremor in her voice. 

She still cared for Fen’Harel. 

And he was not sure what to make of that.

But he nodded and began to shape the dream once more.The fade reformed and they were in a much more modest space than the main temple. Daylight streamed through tall arched windows, illuminating a circular central room with bookshelves against the walls and several wooden tables in the middle, papers strewn across their surface. Doors punctuated the shelves of books at regular intervals and one hung open, the end of a bed and a small desk visible within the room.

“A library?” she asked, looking around. Excitement and gratitude were back again. He wondered if she realized how strongly her emotions rolled off her here. She seemed to be making no effort to conceal them at all.

“A section of the living quarters for Sentinels when we were not on active duty,” he replied.

She picked up a piece of paper and examined a sketch of a flower blooming from a flame. “Did you do this?” 

“I did.” He’d also written notes for spellcasting on it, though he didn’t expect she would be able to read them. 

“You had actual leisure activities?” She sounded surprised.

“I didn’t always have to work. Is that what you think?”

“Well, you’re very…” She waved the paper around vaguely. “You know… serious.”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the edge of the table. “What is it that you think I did?”

She shrugged. “Wore shiny armor. Guarded. Yelled at people.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I was also a _ sul'amelan_.”

She mouthed the word under her breath, then scrunched her face in concentration. “For... for keeper? Guardian?”

“A keeper of knowledge. A teacher,” he translated. “When I wasn’t guarding or yelling at people, of course.”

She smirked at him. “That...actually explains some things. But did you get to take off your shiny armor for that?”

If it had been another time, he might have asked in jest if she was thinking about him taking off his armor. Instead he just met her eyes, holding her gaze for a moment. And then had to hide his amusement as she flushed to the tips of her ears. Some things apparently did not need to be said.

“What did you teach?” she asked, quickly turning to place the paper back on the table.

“I taught _ Eolas'esayelanala _ the ways of the temple, as well as history and certain magics.” 

She had that look on her face again, the one she’d had in the cell. Like she was trying to unlock him. 

“Other Sentinels taught law, ritual, and philosophy,” he continued. “We had rotations. One year of active duty - that’s when we would have been guarding, training for combat, maintaining the temple, and other responsibilities such as that. And then we had a year of lay duty, which varied - some would teach, others would research, or recruit, or work as judges in smaller towns.” He gestured around the room. “This is where the ranking Sentinels lived during lay duty.”

“Is it where you lived?”

He pointed toward the open door. “That was my room.”

She glanced to the room and then back to him, and he sensed a sudden spike in her emotions but they shifted too quickly to name.

Interesting. 

After hesitating for a moment by the table, she crossed to the doorway. She did not enter the room, but remained at the threshold and he joined her, leaning against the side of the door frame. Inside the room, everything was beautifully crafted, but utilitarian. The bed had intricately carved patterns of vines on it, but was the same as all the others in the living quarters. The sheets were made from a type of lost lasting silk, soft, but durable enough to be washed over and over. 

_ Silanehn'inorabelas. _ A memory that brought equal joy and sorrow.

“There’s nothing in it that’s yours,” she said.

“That makes you sad. Why?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured, running her hand along the carved door frame. “You were… you are… Everyone deserves to have something that’s theirs.”

“I had my duty.”

“Was that enough?” She looked up at him, eyes like mist over a well and the curl came loose from behind her ear. It would be such a simple motion for him to tuck it back. 

_ Halam'shivanas _his mind whispered. And he remembered himself. Bound only to his duty.

“It was everything,” he answered.

He met her gaze for a moment more, then took a step back and turned away. 

“It _is_ everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've'an'aria = the Veil   
Silanehn'inorabelas = memory that brings equal joy and sorrow  
vun tuem'sal = life renewing  
Fanasha = little jewel  
Rajelan = leader - like the equivalent of a local magister or mayor  
Sul'amelan = teacher, one who imparts knowledge  
Eolas'esayelanala = Apprentices  
Halam'shivanas - the sweet sacrifice of duty
> 
> My brain: Mythology, history - okay, good good  
Me: (gleefully cackling) But what if he took her to his room?  
My brain: Back on your bullshit I see.
> 
> Song I wrote to: [Sever](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=e7zyF2QJ1BA)  
by iamwhoiam
> 
> As always, eternally grateful to [Johaerys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys/) who beta reads my ramblings.
> 
> Comments and questions are welcome - I love hearing from you guys!


	13. Alas’uil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick refresh on the prior chapter, cause it's been a little longer than usual....  
Nepenthe and Abelas explored Mythal's temple in a Fade dream. Abelas explained how the temple worked and how he'd spent his time as a Sentinel and a teacher, then he remembered his duty...

“Oh! Oh! This is great,” Dagna exclaimed, jumping up from her workbench. “I can’t believe you were able to get one. I kept hearing about these artifact thingys from the Inquisitor and I now I get to…” 

Leliana shot her a look as she started pushing at a piece of the metal housing around the large magical device. 

“Sorry! I’ll let you put it down first! Um, somewhere...” Dagna glanced around the undercroft which was already filled with various complicated instruments, machinery, a forge, and several tables covered with a dizzying assortment of lenses, crystals, runes, tools, and textbooks. “Um… Right there is great,” Dagna decided, pointing toward a narrow space next to a device covered in scales and focal lenses meant for calculating magical energy loads.

She hovered nearby, twisting her hands in excitement, as the two men slowly maneuvered the device off the wheeled cart and onto the stone floor, tipping it into place with a clang that echoed around the room. Dagna thanked them and was about to start inspecting the device when Leliana stopped her. 

“If it had been up to me, we wouldn’t have this thing in Skyhold. I don’t trust that it simply strengthens the Veil as Solas claimed. Will you be able to tell if it’s doing anything else?”

“Well, until I activate it, it’s likely not doing anything at all. But I’ll have to take a look at the energy field and then break down what’s Veil magic versus energy versus…” She waved her hands vaguely and shrugged. “Versus whatever else might be there, then I’ll be able to get an idea of…”

“It’s the ‘whatever else’ part that has me concerned,” interrupted Leliana, crossing her arms. “This could be a weapon. It could be a communication device. It could be something we can’t imagine. And we’ve brought it right past our security into the middle of our stronghold.”

Dagna grimaced apologetically. “It could also be our best chance of learning more about the Veil and how it works and how we keep it from going all…” She made a gesture with her fingers like something exploding. 

“I wish we had something more to go on than this,” Leliana sighed, shaking her head. 

“Maybe we will? Did your scouts find any of the other stuff I asked for?”

“Not yet,” said Leliana, turning to go. “But we’ll keep looking.”

“Maybe the Inquis… Nepenthe will have better luck in the Korcari Wilds,” Dagna called after her.

Leliana looked back and met Dagna’s eyes, worry mirrored in both their faces. “Maybe she will,” Leliana said. But they both knew that a silence this long was worrisome, and that Nepenthe should have reached a checkpoint days ago.

* * *

A throbbing in her leg and a sharp pain in her ribs were there to greet her when she woke up - in fact, were probably the reasons she had awoken right after Abelas showed her the Sentinels living quarters. After he showed you his _ room_, her mind whispered. 

She lifted the blanket to inspect her leg and saw that there was a white bandage wrapped neatly around it and that her leathers had been cleaned of blood. She really should have taken them off first, but things were awkward enough without also being half naked. Her leather breastplate had also been removed, leaving her in just her quilted undershirt. Did she do that? Did he? She couldn’t remember. 

She snuggled deeper into the blanket in the chilly morning air and realized her cloak was covering her as well. He must have put it on her yesterday afternoon. Or evening. It was hard to know how long she’d slept. But the cloak was clean and dry, and the consideration in such an act twisted something inside her chest.

She turned her head to make sure he was still sleeping, then gingerly rolled onto her side. It was probably not fair to study him, but she did it anyway, wondering when he’d last been able to sleep like this. Not in uthenera, not waiting to fight, just...sleeping. Peaceful in the dawn light, one arm tucked under his head, strands of hair loose in his face, the neck of his sweater slipping down to reveal a small scar on his clavicle. 

And then she wondered when someone had last seen him sleep like this, laying next to him as she was. The bed in his room had been narrow. Not a bed for sharing. He drew a deep breath, and she nearly flung herself onto her back again, wincing as pain shot across her ribs. After a moment, she darted a glance in his direction again. 

He was still fast asleep. 

She let out her breath, feeling foolish, and drew a small healing spell through her body, just enough to dull the edge of the pain. 

As slight relief flowed through her, she felt both exhausted and full of a restless, burning energy. She imagined getting up and running down the hill, across the stream, out of the Wilds, and then... maybe she would just keep going. Run until she lost her name and none of this could find her. 

_ We endure, da’len. Even when it seems we have nothing left. _ Her mother’s words, drifting with the ash on the wind across a field of burning flax. The harvest for the year destroyed as a warning from human farmers trying to take over their trade with the weaving mill in Ansburg. _ And we will have our revenge_, Nepenthe remembered thinking, though she had not said it aloud, fear hammering in her chest as her clan scrambled to move the aravels away from the blowing embers. 

She lifted her head up and tried to refocus on the present - the small stone pressing into her back, the air in her lungs heavy with the scent of fallen leaves, the light shifting between the trees, gilding them in some precious metal. She noticed these things. She noticed them and held them with a fierce desperation for everyone she lost who could no longer notice these things. And she would endure. Somehow she would endure.

As to the tasks at hand, these were simple - find a way to relieve herself outside, and then see what she could forage for breakfast. Maybe cleaning herself in the river wouldn’t be out of the question later today either...

Nepenthe was limping back toward the shelter with her waist pouch half full of mushrooms, when her thoughts turned to the dream. Had she learned anything that would help yet? 

Abelas had admitted he’d recognized Solas as one of the Elvhen when they first visited the Vir’Abelasan. She’d _ known _ something had been strange about their whole interaction, had felt it at the time in the way Abelas had addressed them differently. _ She _ was no different than a shem. _ He _ was spoken to with respect. 

She pushed a branch out of her way and was faintly satisfied when it broke off with a snap. She had wanted to ask Solas about the interaction, about the Sentinels. But between sorting out the voices of the Well with Morrigan, preparing for Corypheus’s next move, and Solas ending things, it had not come up. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, she reminded herself. He would have dodged the question. Or invented an answer about the Fade.

She moved faster as her anger rose. Abelas had probably been working for him since the Temple - recruited to the Dread Wolf’s side as she looked on, clueless as always, trying to decide between destroying the past or destroying the future. 

She stepped on a loose rock and lost her balance, grabbing for a tree trunk to catch herself on. And missed completely, because, of course, her arm was eight inches shorter than it used to be. As she hit the ground on her knees, she felt the wound tear open again. “Kaffas motherfucking fenedhis,” she screamed through teeth clenched against the pain. “_Unpala sum sal_.” [fucked over again]

She struggled to her feet, breathing hard. And with a string of muttered curses, limped slowly back to the shelter, her hand clamped awkwardly over the arrow wound.

“Are you alright? I heard swearing.” 

She glared at Abelas where he sat in his bedroll. “It’s fine,” she panted. 

His eyes flicked to her leg and he frowned. “You’re bleeding again. What did you do?” Somehow his tone managed to convey both concern and disappointment that she had ruined his careful work.

She sucked her teeth. “I said it’s fine. I can heal it.”

She lowered herself onto the ground and removed her hand from the bandage. A bright red stain was already blooming at the center of it. She carefully unwound it to see the damage. The skin around the puncture was bruised in a constellation of purples and yellows but the tear was not deep - she’d be able to heal it herself. 

“Do you need your kit?” he offered. “I am out of bandages.”

She nodded absently, trying to see if the exit wound was open as well. Then she realized he had started to grab her pack. 

“No!” She held up her hand. “I...I can do it myself. I need to be able to take care of myself,” she stammered, heart racing. 

He looked at her curiously, but withdrew his hand.

Gods, she’d have to be more careful about the orb. Maybe worth trying to hide it someplace outside - though she didn’t like the thought of it being out of her sight.

She dragged herself to her bag and rummaged inside for her healing kit. Everything was disorganized - she’d have to sort it later today. She took out the two books and banged them down on her bedroll slightly harder than necessary then resumed searching, ignoring the stoically disapproving look that Abelas was giving her. Finally, she found the kit and pulled it out of the bag, unsure if she felt like working on the spell under his watchful eye. 

“Look, why don’t you go try to find us some more food?” she suggested. “The stuff I brought is better for an emergency.” She grimaced, remembering the taste of the mudweed cake.

“I have not seen many signs of game.”

“You don’t need to hunt. There’s stuff to forage.”

He frowned. “What should I look for?”

Of course. He probably hadn’t needed to forage much, if ever, and the vegetation around the Temple of Mythal was decidedly different. Still, she couldn’t resist a jab. “You mean following the pre-ordained path laid at your feet doesn’t take you to food?”

He shot her a look and didn’t bother replying. She couldn’t blame him, really.

“Look in there,” she instructed, tossing him her cinch sack. “That kind of mushroom is edible. I also saw a bunch of adahl’ean higher up the hill.”

He gave her an indecipherable look. “_Adahl’ean_? Wood birds?”

“No, adahl’ean is also a mushroom. But make sure they’re the kind with orange gills - there’s another kind that looks similar but with white gills and those are poisonous. Oh, and I think there may have been burdock up there, too. Huge leaves. The roots are good on that.” She tipped her head, considering. “So are the leaves, in a pinch.”

With a nod, he rose, donned his boots, and left the shelter.

While he was gone, she healed the wound and rebandaged it, then gathered her cooking supplies from her pack. Abelas had already collected wood for a fire at the entrance to the shelter, so with a flick of her wrist she lit the sticks. Except, it wasn’t enough and only a thin wisp of smoke rose into the air. She tried again, recalculating the spell, but this time it was too much and the pile ignited with a flash that singed the rock behind it and sent the burning sticks scattering across the dirt. She scrambled to contain the fire, cursing under her breath. Grabbing the end of one branch, she used it to start pushing the rest back into a pile before they could ignite anything else. 

Abelas returned and stopped abruptly at the entrance, wordlessly taking in the sight of her crouched in the dirt, poking a burning stick at embers that had landed near their bedrolls. 

“Everything is fine,” she insisted tensely, glancing in his direction.

She was fairly certain he sighed as he crossed to the fire, nudging the last of the embers back into place with the toe of his boot. 

After she resettled herself by the contained fire, he handed her the cinch sack. “How did I do?” 

She quickly dug through the sack. She’d been right about the adahl’ean and the burdock, but the food would only be enough to last a day, maybe two if they were careful. Still, it was a good sign there was so much available nearby. They could survive here without needing to worry about starvation. The realization did much to reduce her anxiety.

“You did good,” she said, nodding.

“Are those cooking herbs? You brought cooking herbs?” he asked, eyebrows lifting as he spotted the bag by the fire. 

She frowned at him, settling the iron pan onto the coals. “I’m not feral, Abelas.”

“That is not what I was implying. It’s… you lived like this, didn’t you?”

She snorted, laying a clean cloth on the ground next to her. “Not quite this rough. The aravels were a lot more comfortable than a cave, believe it or not. We had actual beds and space to store our belongings and tools and stuff for cooking. And we didn’t have to forage everything.” 

She pointed towards his pack. “Grab your knife, you can cut these after I clean them,” she instructed, tipping some of the mushrooms into her lap. “We grew things as well - herbs for cooking and healing, of course, but also vegetables.” 

She smiled to herself, as Abelas returned with his knife and sat by her side. “There was this type of squash that ripened early in the spring and it was everyone’s favorite food in Em'syla'man but by Tua'sal'adahl'man - after eight months of eating it in every possible way - you’d never want to see it again in your life.” Her smile twisted and she pushed the thoughts of her family away. She’d already broken down once in front of him in the dream, she did not want to do it again here. 

“What about you?” she asked, picking at a spot on a mushroom. “Any food you miss from before?”

Abelas looked thoughtful. “There is a lot I miss. The i’ve’an’aria disrupted the balance of nature as well. Many plants needed magic to grow and without it...they died off. And without food sources, so did the insects and animals that relied on them.” He picked up the cleaned mushroom she’d placed on the cloth and began cutting it slowly.

“I’d never considered that the Veil affected the living world,” she said, glancing out toward the forest and wondering how different it would have looked before the Veil. Somehow, the idea of losing the very plants and animals she’d relied on for survival drove the implications of the Veil home in a way that grand plans about locking away the Evanuris had not. 

The Veil had changed everything.

“On the hills near where I grew up, there used to be these berries - pale pink, small.” He showed her with his thumb and index finger. “They appeared every ten years, ripened quickly and were gone again. You had to know where to look for them, they only grew wild. I miss those.”

She tipped a small amount of oil into the cooking pan. “What else?”

He hummed, thinking. “For everyday food… probably _ alas’uil_.”

She fumbled for the translation. “Dirt...apple? That doesn’t sound right.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No worse than ‘wood bird’. And they weren’t really apples. They just grew underground. Peeled and sliced thin and cooked in a little bit of oil with spices…” She watched his hands become more animated as he spoke and then grew still again. “I think they are extinct now,” he said sadly.

“What did they look like?”

“About this size,” he indicted one of the large mushrooms on the cloth. “White inside, brown peel, and lumpy. They had to be stored out of the sunlight or they would go green and become poisonous.”

She frowned as she shook the dirt off another mushroom. “Did they have little ‘eyes’ on them? The places where they’d start to root again?”

He paused in his work, looking at her with narrowed eyes. “Yes.”

“And were they really starchy? Turned the cooking water white?”

“Yes...”

“Abelas. Those are potatoes.” She couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. “We still have potatoes.”

He put the knife and mushroom down in his lap, an expression of disbelief mixed with gratitude on his face. “Truly?”

“Yes,” she laughed. “Truly.”

He resumed his work, a slight quirk playing around the corner of his lips as he sliced the mushrooms into smaller pieces. For a moment, they worked in companionable silence, preparing this simple meal, the soft sound of his blade cutting through the mushroom cap and the sizzle of the oil in the pan the only sounds. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye - the sleeves of his sweater were rolled up to his elbows, leaving his forearms bare, and his hands were gentle in their work. Good - many people handled mushrooms so roughly they bruised and would go off more quickly. The burns had healed well she noticed - already the new skin on the back of his hand was losing it’s pink tinge. 

She watched him draw the knife carefully through the mushroom, stopping the blade with his thumb. His thumb that had traced across her cheek, wiping her tears away. What would have happened if she had not pulled away? Would he have stroked his fingers along the curve of her ear, trailed them down her neck, skimmed lower... A shiver ran down her spine, and she snapped her eyes back to her own work.

She realized he’d stopped cutting and was looking at her expectantly, holding out his hand. She quickly finished rubbing the rest of the dirt off her mushroom and handed it to him. When their fingers brushed, she was struck by how domestic this was. How simple - the need to eat and the pleasure of making a good meal unchanged over time. Is this what it would be like if they were unburdened by their titles and their duty? Not the Sentinel and the Inquisitor - just Abelas and Nepenthe. Or perhaps they could shed even those names, shrugging them off like a second skin, discarding Sorrow and Strife for a chance to find new names whispered between each other’s lips.

“You never told me how you knew Fen’Harel was going to remove the i’ve’an’aria,” he said, and the thought shredded. Of course they were the Sentinel and the Inquisitor. They would never be anything else. One ancient elf was enough of a mistake.

She continued to look down at the mushroom she had cradled against her stomach with her amputated arm while she brushed the dirt off it with her other hand. 

_ Sometimes terrible choices are all that remain. _Solas’s voice echoed in her mind.

“You gave your word,” Abelas reminded her, placing handfuls of sliced mushrooms into the pan.

“I know,” she whispered. He’d looked so different in the Crossroads. The way he’d carried himself, hands clasped behind his back, the unhurried sway in his walk. So different, until his face crumbled and he kissed her cheek as he took the mark. She clenched her jaw. As he took back his power. 

_ Vhenan, we are running out of time. _

She looked at Abelas. “He told me,” she said evenly. “Sol… Fen’Harel told me. About a month ago when I saw him in the Crossroads.”

For a moment, Abelas froze, the knife halfway through another mushroom. “Why did he do that?” he asked, his tone carefully controlled, as he resumed cutting.

“I don’t know.” She’d asked herself the same question many times and still had not come up with a satisfying answer. “I think he needed the mark, but he didn’t need to tell me everything he did.” She rubbed absently at the stump of her arm.

Abelas looked at her sharply. “Everything? What else did the Wolf tell you?”

_ I will save the elvhen people, even if it means this world must die. _

“Enough to raise more questions, not enough to answer any of them,” she said, banging the wooden spoon against the pan as she stirred. “He told me that we’d gotten the myths about Fen’Harel wrong, that he’d worked to set people free from slavery, and that the Veil had cost the elves their immortality.”

“That much is true. What else?”

“He said that he raised the Veil to imprison the Evanuris and stop them from destroying the world after they killed Mythal.” She was going to mention that Solas told her about his orb, then thought better of it - the less said about orbs right now, the better. 

“Anything else?” The tightness in his voice betrayed how tenuously he remained in control. Solas had obviously kept their meeting a secret, and if telling him these details meant he would start to question his loyalty, she had no problem continuing.

“I told him that he didn’t have to destroy this world, and that we could find another way. And he told me...” She hesitated, unsure if this was truly the right tactic.

“Go on.”

_ “_He said that he would treasure the chance to be wrong once again.”

Abelas looked down and flexed his fingers against his thigh. “This world cannot stay as it is. You keep saying everything is fine, but it is not. Your leg is not fine - if I had my true magic, I could heal it completely. The fire is not fine - if you had _ your _ true magic, you would not struggle to light it. From what I have seen and heard, your world is far from _ fine_. Elves live in poverty, caged inside cities. They live as slaves under human masters. They hide in the woods because this world has pushed them to the edge of survival.” 

“Look, Abelas, I don’t know the history like you do, but from what I’ve read, and what Sol - _ fuck _ \- Fen’Harel told me, Elvhenan was not _ fine _ either. How can you want to go back to that? Wars and slaves and these god-like mages slaughtering their followers for sport? Oh, fenedhis!” she shouted, realizing the mushrooms were burning. She pushed the pan off the coals and worked to scoop the mushrooms into a bowl. 

“Of course I do not want to go back to that! Fen’Harel does not want to go back to that. We can create something better.”

“Why do you even care to argue this with me? Who are you trying to convince? You know it’s not right. Most of Fen’Harel’s followers are going to die, Abelas. If not in the actual collapse of the Veil then in the fighting afterward.”

He shook his head. “You don’t know that. And is it not worthwhile to die fighting for something you believe in?”

Her anger drained away and she was left with only exhaustion. She rubbed her hand across her mouth. “And what are they told to believe in?” 

He held her gaze, silent, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“What will happen if the Veil falls, Abelas? The Evanuris? These seals you mentioned? What happens?”

“Fen’Harel has plans.” 

His response was an echo of the same words Solas had used in the crossroads and she let out a humorless laugh, closing her eyes. “You don’t even know.”

He stood then and walked out of the shelter without a backward glance. Nepenthe watched the steam rise from the bowl of mushrooms but found she had no appetite left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES  
I’ve’an’aria = the Veil  
unpala sum sal = fucked over again  
Em'syla'man = March  
Tua'sal'adahl'man = October  
Adahl’ean = a type of mushroom (lit. wood bird)  
alas'uil = potato (lit. dirt apple)
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone - I love your comments and hearing your thoughts! 
> 
> As always, huge thanks to my beta [Johaerys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys/).


	14. The Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief recap - last chapter Nepenthe schooled Abelas on wilderness living, he found out potatoes still exist despite the Veil causing some extinctions, and she revealed that it was Solas himself who had told her about his plans...

Clouds of his breath puffed into the air as Abelas scaled the hill on the opposite side of the river, hoping the exertion would help focus his scattered thoughts. Fen’Harel had met her in secret and told her about his plan, but to what end? Had he been trying to recruit her? Perhaps the _ several years _ they already spent together would have been the more opportune time for that. Though their meeting explained why he had seemed more distracted in the past month.

At the top of the hill, he turned to climb along the ridge, considering something in particular she had said. _ Enough to raise more questions, not enough to answer any of them_. Fen’Harel had dangled information in front of her and then disappeared. From what Abelas had seen of her curiosity and intellect so far, that had either been a very calculated move or huge mistake.

He reached the crest and stopped, scanning the area. Below him, he could just make out the curve of the river through the trees. His tracks, on the other hand, were starkly visible all the way up the rise. He’d forgotten the Fade pathways. Fenedhis. The Wolf was not the only one distracted. 

He rubbed his hands over his face and back along his ears. He needed to refocus. Finding a flat rock near an outcropping, he settled himself on it, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees. Slipping into the Fade to meditate came easily after years of practice, though in the early days of the i’ve’an’aria it had felt like trying to push through mud. 

Between deep breaths, the waking world dropped away and he found himself standing in the middle of a bridge between two distant shores, icy mountain peaks rising in the distance. The stonework and statuary was Elvhen, but from a time that had been ancient even when he had been young. He walked to the balustrade and gripped the edge as he looked down into a chasm hundreds of feet deep with a milk-white river churning at the bottom of it.

A motion on the bridge caught his attention and he snapped his head around. Someone was approaching, silhouetted against the distant snowfields. Abelas raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare, but could not make out any details beyond the quickness of their pace and that their arms seemed to be clasped behind their back. 

He moved to the center of the bridge and slid into a fighting stance, waiting to see whether the figure would be friend or foe. The only way to escape was behind him but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Sunlight glinted off ornate armor and suddenly the shape resolved into one he knew well. 

Fen’Harel. 

He cursed himself for not preparing for this meeting as a possibility. The Wolf had an uncanny knack for finding things in the Fade and Abelas hoped this projection was all he had seen in the last day.

He let out his breath and dropped his arms, easing into a position of attentive rest. He studied the man as he approached, trying to see if he could detect some hint that he now carried Mythal’s spirit, or some portion of it, within him. Spirits had once taken bodies created with rare and specialized magic, but by the time he was born, that practice had largely fallen out of favor and for the most part, spirits and elves lived parallel lives. When elves did join with a spirit, it was usually only for shorter periods of time or during their first naming ceremony. Even then, it was often not obvious when an elf hosted a spirit, unless they began to twist each other from their true nature, and an intervention was needed. But Mythal was no ordinary spirit. If she was now bound with Fen’Harel, Abelas could not tell by simply looking.

He stopped several paces away and Abelas clamped down hard on his emotions so that nothing was transferred. Then realized that would be just as suspicious, and attempted to relax enough to let some feelings of relief through. 

“Abelas. I did not expect this mission to take longer than a day. Has something happened?” His tone was concerned, but it was concern stretched tight over uncertainty. He’d be wise to be wary of an anxious wolf.

“A complication at the temple. It was not as abandoned as we thought. I was captured by Andruil’s Sentinels.”

Fen’Harel’s eyebrows lifted. “So they yet linger. Where are you now? Do you remain in danger?”

“No, I was able to escape.”

“Come. Walk with me. I would know all that happened.”

Fen’Harel turned to go back the way he came and Abelas fell into step by his side, their strides matching up easily. “I was taken by surprise as I approached but was able to convince them to keep me alive through an artifice that paid off - I feigned dissatisfaction in your service and promised I could deliver you to them. They dropped their guard when they believed I was an ally, and I got away.”

“I cannot imagine they took you at your word. What did you have to leverage?”

_ Her_. And too late, he realized his mistake in not leading with that information. Mentioning her now only emphasized that he had held something back. But he did not trust that he could completely lie about this to Fen’Harel. Or to Mythal.

“The Inquisitor.”

There was a slight change in the air around him, so slight he might have missed it if he had not already been highly alert, as Fen’Harel slid his own shields further into place, before turning toward him slowly. 

“Are you saying you saw her at the temple? Does she remain imprisoned there?” His tone was calm, too much so, and Abelas was both very glad that she was safe, and fairly certain that Fen’Harel would have, in fact, come for her if he’d needed to. “Abelas, report.”

He straightened up, rolling his shoulders back and fixing his gaze over Fen’Harel’s shoulder, wishing he had planned something in advance. “I encountered her in the Wilds, not far from the temple. I bound her to keep her from interfering with my mission and the Sentinels intercepted us there as I did so. We were brought before the High Priestess where I was able to convince her that…that you would...” 

“That I would come for the Inquisitor given the nature of our shared past.”

Abelas swallowed. “It seemed the easiest concession and I did not believe it to be a secret.”

Fen’Harel turned and began walking again. “No, it is not. And I am glad for your sake that it worked.”

They walked without speaking for a moment, the gravel crunching under their feet and the roar of the distant river the only sounds. He fought the impulse to fill the silence. It was probably wiser to wait and answer only the questions that were asked.

From the corner of his eye, he studied Fen’Harel. He wore his full, gleaming armor, the wolf pelt slung across his shoulder as a constant reminder of his epithet. Such a change from when he had first arrived at Mythal’s temple, clad in dirty robes and wielding a staff as if he didn’t have his true magic at his fingertips. Abelas wondered if that had been the mask, or this. Or if he was now something else entirely. 

“Was this her idea or yours?”

“It was mine.”

“What happened next?”

“Directly after, I was able to distract the guards and we both made it to the temple entrance. During that time, I saw some of the temple layout. Primarily main corridors. I did not encounter anything that stood out as an item of value, but that is obviously not to say it doesn’t exist. After a brief fight with the Sentinels at the entrance, during which there were at least four casualties, we escaped the temple. We were separated outside.” Not a total lie, they had been separated. He just had also found her again. “My current position is somewhere to the east of the temple. I have not been pursued.”

“She is alone?” Fen’Harel’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon.

Abelas chose his words carefully. “I do not believe anyone from the Inquisition accompanied her.” 

While Fen’Harel gathered his thoughts, Abelas continued impulsively. “_Rajelan_, I can track the girl and ensure that she or the remaining members of the Inquisition avoid the temple until we are able to mount an attack and retrieve anything of value.” He paused, and rubbed his chin. “Of course, I could also remove her as a threat entirely, if you command it.” He hoped pressing to extreme measures would cover his earlier lapse and gambled that the Wolf’s own feelings would keep him in check.

“No,” Fen’Harel said firmly, and even with the reinforcement of his barriers, Abelas could still feel faint stirrings of his anger. “That is a senseless casualty and the world will see enough of those.” He composed himself again, the mask dropping back into place, the anger settling behind his shields. “What of the Sentinels? How many remain?”

“At least two dozen of them awake, possibly more in uthenera. I did not see them using magic, except defensively.” He slowed his pace and turned to Fen’Harel. “They wear tainted vallaslin, but they are not yet _ banallen_. The Priestess said something strange - they hear her calling. I am unfamiliar with a precedent, but is it possible that Andruil could be communicating with them? Some aspect of her that can still reach her Sentinels?” He asked the questions neutrally, careful that nothing more than curiosity laced his tone. 

Fen’Harel stopped and met his eyes then, drawing his attention back from the horizon. “To my knowledge, Andruil’s spirit remains sealed behind the i’ve’an’aria. Perhaps putting such poison into their skin has finally caused them to abandon all reason. Did she say anything more about what they heard?” 

“It seemed like it was perhaps coming from somewhere underground, but she did not say anything more specific. Do you know what it might be?”

Fen’Harel frowned briefly and began walking again. “I will think on it. It is nothing that you need worry about. We will take the temple, and then I expect it will no longer matter. I will assemble a force. In the meantime, stay-”

A deafening, shrill sound echoed through the valley, cutting off his next words. Abelas tensed, the sound taking him back to the days of protecting the temple. But he was not in uthenera and the temple was abandoned. 

“The wards,” he growled, as realization dawned. “I will return when I can.”

“Go,” said Fen’Harel. “And, Abelas, I am glad for your loyalty.”

A chill ran through him at the words - unsure if they were meant to be reassuring or a threat, or possibly both, but he simply nodded, and then the Fade was dissolving. 

His eyes snapped open in the waking world as someone grabbed the hair at his crown and wrenched his head back. A blade came toward his throat, to capture, not to kill, and he threw his weight to the side, twisting away from the knife as he struck out behind him. His fist connected with something, drawing a grunt of pain and the hand on his hair released. He whirled around to face his attacker, but there was no opportunity to press his advantage - they were gone. 

He jumped to his feet, staying low to scan the area. A shimmer to his left and a glinting arc of metal were the only warnings of the next attack. He spun out of reach, throwing a binding spell with a flick of his wrist, but it dissolved, empty. Snapping his head around, he searched for a sign of motion, a ripple of distortion where the assassin would be next. It had been foolish to remove his armor. And it would not help him to put up a barrier. He’d have to lure them out sooner or later and keeping a barrier up would just encourage them to stay hidden. 

Another attack came and he fell to one knee as he dodged back, the blade barely missing his neck. He slashed out with a ripple of Fade energy but it only crashed into the nearby trees. He felt the next attack before he saw it, a warping of the energy behind him. He half-turned as the blade came down, ducking underneath it and bringing his hand up in a sweeping arc to throw an energy wall into his assailant. The spell slammed into them and broke their focus. The perception barrier dropped and the Sentinel became visible as she crashed into the side of a tree, her antlered mask shattering in the impact.

She fell to the ground and Abelas closed the distance between them, grabbing one of her knives from where it had fallen in the leaves. Before she could do more than rise to her knees, he grabbed her hair and slid the blade up under the back of her skull. Her body slumped and he released her as he pulled out the knife. 

As he was wiping it on her back, another of the wards sounded. They’d found the shelter. He launched himself off the ground and sprinted down the hill, scanning the far bank to see if he could see any sign of more Sentinels. If they captured her again, she would be tortured. For years. Until they broke her body and her mind and then they would continue for the sheer sport of it. Prey that had thwarted the huntress was dealt with most harshly of all. His stomach clenched at the thought. No one deserved that fate.

He was over the river and there was still no sign of a fight. If it was another assassin, she may have already been captured or killed. He pushed the thought away and ran faster. There - above him - a flicker of motion between the trees. An arrow slipped by his head and he ducked, drawing a barrier into place around him as he continued up the hill without slowing his pace.

The Sentinel darted to the side behind an outcropping of rock, probably trying to get a better angle on his position. He needed to finish this and get to the cave.

With a roar he sent a fireball smashing into the side of the rock she hid behind. A section of it exploded into shards that flew in all directions and he heard a gurgling scream that turned into wet gasping. He scrambled over the leaf covered ground to take her before she could regroup. Reinforcing his barrier, he slid around the rock and found her on the ground, shards of stone piercing her face and throat. 

“_Nuva mar elgar banafelas_,” [May your spirit rot.] she ground out, choking on blood. 

“_Nuva an’banal ver nar_.” [May the void take yours.] He knelt by her side and with a thrust of the knife, took her life. 

Over the sounds of her last rasping breaths came a scream to his right. Her scream. Fear shot through him as he rose to his feet and began running. 

He was going to be too late. Too late again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rajelan = general  
I’ve’an’aria = the Veil  
Nuva mar elgar banafelas = may your spirit rot  
Nuva an’banal ver nar = may the void take yours
> 
> The sounds of my evil author laughter echoes back from the cliff I'm leaving you all on. Muhahaha! :::runs:::


	15. Assassin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter recap - Abelas and Solas had a tense convo. Andruil's Sentinels found Abelas and he was able to fight them off. But OH NO - where is Nepenthe? What is happening? AH!

It wasn’t footsteps she heard exactly, but something caused her to cautiously peer out of the entrance, chest pressed to the rock with a spell held ready in the taught fingers of her Fade hand. She scanned the surrounding area but all seemed quiet. 

No, there it was again. She crept out further, stepping carefully along the rock face as she peered through the trees. The wind gusted and she lost the faint sound she’d been trying to catch as showers of leaves came cascading down through the branches. She began moving again, then froze. About 20 paces away, a leaf had stopped in mid air. She squinted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, as it slowly started coming toward her. Her eyes flicked from the leaf to the forest floor, where indentations were slowly appearing in the layer of leaves, so slight she would never have noticed if she hadn’t been carefully looking. 

Realization dawned and fear lanced through her. Assassin. She’d encountered one only once before, just after the events at Halam’shiral. Solas had taken the man down. And this, she suspected was no man, but a red lyrium fueled Sentinel. 

Focusing on the leaf and hardly daring to draw breath, she threw a binding spell, hoping it would be enough to disrupt whatever technique the Sentinel was using to cloak herself. The leaf floated slowly to the ground. No one became visible. She backed up toward the shelter, striking out wildly with a barrage of ice shards, sharp as blades. Nothing.

She cast again and again. Ice ripped into the bark of the trees and shredded through leaves. Still nothing. She had just turned to cast in another direction when a force slammed into her chest and threw her back into the rock. She cried out with the sudden shock of it and before she could even release a spell, strong hands grabbed her and a stinging pain shot through her neck. As she was turned and held in place by unseen arms against an invisible chest, she felt her magic sever, like someone had cut the cords. Poisoned. As Abelas had been. A prick at her throat forced her head up, and the press of cold steel against her neck was real enough. 

“Foolish girl,” a voice scratched near her ear. “Andruil always gets what she is owed. And you owe quite a bit. Where is it?”

As her mouth went dry, she wished that she _ had _ hidden the orb some place outside. At least it would have been more difficult to find. All the Sentinel truly had to do was kill her and search her bag. Though possibly, they still believed she could be valuable as some kind of leverage with Solas.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, her voice hoarse. It was disorienting not having her magic - even when Abelas had bound her, she could still sense it, like a river being held back by a dam. But this was like the water did not even exist. 

The knife pressed harder into her throat and she felt a trickle of blood roll down to her collarbone. She took shallow breaths through her nose and tried not to swallow.

“I could make your death last for decades until you are screaming for a sweet release that will not come.” The voice was gentle even as the arm around her shoulders tightened and fingers dug painfully under her collarbone. 

“He took it,” she gasped. “He’s already gone.” She scanned the area, hoping that there might be something she could use as a weapon. Loose rocks by her feet. A broken branch at shoulder height. Too far away to be of any use. 

A mirthless laugh echoed behind her. “You know - we have not had visitors to the temple in so long. Having you there to play with will be a welcome change.” Something wet pressed against the back of her neck and her stomach rolled as the Sentinel slowly licked up to her hairline. She suddenly remembered the fable of Andruil and Fen’Harel, where it was said the Huntress had once tied the Wolf to a tree and demanded he serve her in bed for a year and a day. Nepenthe had assumed it was symbolic, but now she suspected it held more than a grain of truth. _ Fucking sadists. _ It was also said that Fen’Harel had escaped the trap and she hoped that was true as well. Whatever fate might await her at the temple, this needed to end now.

Footsteps approached, hard and fast, and the Sentinel pulled her slowly backwards until they were just inside the shelter. The knife nicked her throat again, and she felt a fresh trickle of blood run down her neck. A second later, Abelas swung around the rocks and nearly crashed into her. Breathing hard, his torso covered in dirt and blood, he started to speak, then stopped. His eyes flicked over her twisted posture, her raised chin, and the blood on her throat. 

“Ah, here is the lover now. Maybe he has some answers.” 

“He’s not my lover,” she hissed.

For a measured breath, Nepenthe held his gaze as his hands curled into fists by his sides. She could feel the power rolling off him, like something electric in the air, his jaw set, and the muscles in his neck pulled tight.

The Sentinel laughed behind her, grating and discordant, and she used the distraction to mouth to Abelas _ no magic _ and hoped he understood.

“You are fascinating. So quick to deceive but compelled to correct me on that. Look at him. All shining anger, coiled to strike.” She paused and then gave a low, rasping chuckle. “He holds himself in check because of the blade at your throat. That is not just anger. That is fear. He cares about you. How sweet. You could both be fun to play with.”

“Is this what happens when your brain rots away for an eternity?” Nepenthe snapped. She did not want to think about whether Abelas cared for her, likely he didn’t think of her at all, and it was a transparent tactic to catch her off guard.

“Careful, girl. Don’t want to lose your pretty face already.” The blade pressed tighter again and Nepenthe clenched her teeth against the pain. 

“Release her. She knows nothing,” Abelas commanded, his voice low and threatening.

“So eager to be the hero,” the Sentinel said. “And all he can do is watch while I play with you. Now where were we? Ah yes, you were about to tell me where-”

Nepenthe moved without thinking, grabbing for where she hoped the Sentinel’s wrist would be. Her fingers closed around something and she wrenched her arm away while dropping her shoulders, attempting to slide out of the hold. It was awkward but she kept her fingers clamped around the Sentinel’s wrist, no plan beyond keeping the knife away from her face. She saw Abelas close in and then her back hit the wall hard as the Sentinel threw her weight and she lost her grip. She kicked out with her injured leg, connected, and then something cut along her jawline. Nepenthe cried out, stumbling backward onto the ground outside the shelter.

Abelas ducked under something she couldn’t even see and then hurled a spell toward the mouth of the cave. The Sentinel became visible as she was caught in his binding spell, only feet away from Nepenthe, her arm cocked back, about to throw her knife. A crackle of energy ran up the assassin's body and her mouth opened in a scream. And then her face went slack and her eyes clouded over, unseeing. With a gesture, Abelas released the binding spell and caught the Sentinel around the neck, slamming her body back into the rock. 

For a moment, all he did was hold her there, his fingers tightening around her neck, looking like he wished he could have killed her again with his bare hands. As his ragged breathing slowed, he checked her pulse, then glanced up and nodded to Nepenthe, confirming she was dead. He released the body and she blew out her breath, letting her head drop forward.

She’d been caught off guard and overpowered by Sentinels twice now, three times if she counted her meeting with Abelas. And these were just soldiers. How would she be able to face the Evanuris if the Veil came down? _ You won’t be alone _ she told herself, but it was no comfort. Having her friends fight at her side just meant losing more people she cared about. 

“There were more?” She rubbed her hands over her face, hissing when her fingers touched the cut on her jaw. Only a few centimeters between life and death. 

“Two others. Both are dead now.” He came and crouched next to her. “Let me see it.”

“It’s fine.”

He drew his bottom lip between his teeth. “We talked about things being fine.”

He made no move to get up, so with a defeated sigh she dropped her hand away. “How did they find us?”

“I do not know.” 

But she knew. The orb. It had to be the orb. In which case, Andruil’s Sentinels would be able to track them regardless of their efforts. 

He reached out and gently held her chin, tipping her head up so he could see the wound more easily. As she kept her gaze on the branches overhead, his fingertips pushed the collar of her shirt aside and ran lightly along her collarbone. “Does that hurt?” 

“No.” Her voice came out in a whisper and she cleared her throat. “No,” she said again.

“Mmm. It looks like it’s going to bruise.”

"What's one more?" She started to get up. “We should go. There may be more.”

He put his hand on her shoulder and pressed her back down. “Then we should make it harder to track us by not leaving a trail of blood to our exact location.” He looked pointedly at her neck.

“You’re bleeding, too.” She gestured to his arm where there was a long gash along his forearm and he raised it up to look, grunting in surprise.

“It can wait.”

She turned to look at him. “That's just another way of saying it’s fine. And we talked about that,” she said, dropping her voice to mimic his tone.

He fixed her with a look for a moment, and she couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed. “Turn your head back. Let me heal your neck, then we will go.”

She complied, tipping her chin up. “As long as you do your arm after.”

He slipped his hand around the back of her neck and she felt the now familiar wash of his magic begin to spread. Except without her own magic, the sensation was entirely different. It was sharper, much more intense, a tingling that licked over her skin. It felt like he’d said, like his magic was flowing into the places where hers should have been, filling her. She made a soft sound that could have been a sigh and his fingers tensed. 

“Does it hurt? I’m nearly done.”

“It doesn’t hurt. It feels… It doesn’t hurt.” But it _ was _ almost too much and she remembered how she’d been able to sense each part of him when she’d healed him before. Could he? The old scars, the rapid beat of her heart, all the pain that still lingered from before, piled up and pushed around inside her.

“Why are you still helping me?” She met his eyes, and he glanced away.

“Orders.”

“I don’t believe you.” The magic shifted then, or maybe she reached for it, for him. Sensations flickered through her mind, almost too quick to process. A drop of water falling onto the still surface of a pool, a red flower bursting into flame, a woman in a gold dress walking down an ornate hallway, a vast crowd, a sound like enormous wings, the acrid smell of smoke.

“I need answers, too, molain.”

She nearly missed his reply as she tried to process what she was seeing. A child’s bare feet running through tall grass, thousands of tiny lights flickering in the dark, sunlight slanting across a row of desks.

Without thinking, she put her hand on his cheek and turned his head so that he was looking at her again. His lips were parted, and he observed her quietly, a small crease forming between his brows. 

“Why the rose?” she breathed. “It was in your dream, too.”

He blinked slowly and then his expression shifted, his eyes focusing, flicking over her face. “What? What did you just do?”

“I don’t know. I just… reached and it was there.”

He seemed like he was going to say something, but he just shook his head, and she felt his magic pull back, leaving her skin tingling and a tang like metal on her tongue. 

“We need to move,” he said, standing up. 

What _ had _ she done? She got to her feet slowly as he began packing his bedroll, an idea about magic and empty spaces flickering on the edges of her mind, too insubstantial to grasp. The Sentinels were the more immediate concern. And how they could possibly outrun them. 

She limped to the fire to gather her cooking supplies, hurriedly tucking the utensils and spices into the small pan. Turning towards her pack, she stopped. Abelas had stripped down to his smalls. His training clearly showed in his build - a fighter, not just a mage. As he bent down to put on the underlayer of his armor, his braid swung over his bare shoulder and she realized his vallaslin was not only on his face - the trunk of Mythal’s tree ran along the center of his muscular back and twining branches spread across his broad shoulders. The roots of the tree dipped into the defined muscles just above his waistband, and… She glanced away before he saw her looking and shoved the cooking pan into her pack with perhaps more force than was entirely necessary. 

After they were both packed and dressed in their armor again, she picked up a small, wooden cup that she’d left out and handed it to him. 

“Here. I saved you mushrooms.” She adjusted her pack and walked out of the shelter. “Eat on the way,” she called over her shoulder.

* * *

As she stood up from their meager dinner of leftover mushrooms and waybiscuits, her leg cramped again and with a sharp inhale and a muttered curse, she stumbled, slipping off the Fade pathway in the semi-darkness.

He looked back to her, jaw set and mouth drawing into a line. “We have to keep going,” he said apologetically.

“Just give me a minute.” She bent over and placed her hand against her thigh, sending another pulse of healing through her leg. It numbed the pain, enough for her to continue walking, but she wasn’t sure how many more hours she could sustain, even like this. 

They’d been walking silently since midmorning, after stopping by the river to clean some of the blood from her face and neck, with only occasional breaks to rest and tend to her leg once her magic returned. She hadn’t wanted to ask Abelas again after whatever she’d done before had felt so… intimate. The sun had set before they’d eaten, briefly cutting under the clouds that hung heavy overhead for a few minutes, and bathing everything in a strange golden light. Abelas had maintained the Fade pathways but she could tell even his reserves were flagging as they continued heading vaguely north, mile after mile, trying to find the edge of the Wilds. She suspected this ploy would not matter in the end, but perhaps it would be enough to slow the Sentinels down until she could reach… something. Skyhold. A checkpoint. A horse…

And he had admitted to having more questions. And she was fairly certain he was not following orders, perhaps for the first time in his life, despite what he insisted.

Abelas shifted ahead of her and she motioned for him to keep going. Straightening up, she followed him with the stiff-legged limp she’d found most bearable. Shift, drag, step, pain. Shift, drag, step, pain. 

Shift.  
Drag.  
Step.  
Pain.

She couldn’t do this for the rest of the night. 

“Abelas,” she said toward his back, hoping conversation would distract her. “Are you still bound? To the Well, or… or Mythal?”

“I am not. The last connection broke with the loss of the vir’abelasan.”

“So you can choose.”

He paused. “Choose what?”

“Choose your own path to follow. It’s no longer being dictated by a god. _ Any _ god. Maybe there’s something for you here.”

He looked out into the dark trees and shook his head. “There is nothing here, molain.” 

“There’s potatoes,” she said sardonically. 

He stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. She pretended to study the branches overhead until he turned around again with a sigh. 

Shift. Drag. Step. Pain.

“You know, I promised you a story about little mice,” she said. “Do you want to hear it?” 

“If you wish.”

“Alright. When I tell it, you have to pay careful attention to the wine. I’m going to ask you an important question at the end.”

He grunted his acknowledgement and she began quietly, as her grandmother had always done when she told the riddle. “There was once a group of nine powerful dragons, each a ruler of a separate realm. They ruled their kingdoms ruthlessly and their subjects, the small mice, were forced to serve them. These dragons had fought and battled with each other for centuries over a particular valley that was known for its beauty and abundance. No dragon ever controlled it for long, and they grew weary of their constant fighting. One dragon, ancient and enormous, suggested a meeting to arrange a truce, to be held at a central cave. The other dragons agreed to this. They met, and after much debate, they arrived at a solution. To make their agreement binding, each of the dragons dipped their claws into red ink and left their mark on parchment. Then the old dragon called his servants, the mice, to pour wine and serve it for a toast.”

She paused. “Pay attention to this part, ok?”

“Alright,” he said, without breaking stride.

“The wine bottles were in the room, they had been brought there by the old dragon himself and had not left his sight the entire time. They were all sealed and the seals had never been broken. As the dragons watched, the mice opened the bottles and poured the wine into clear glasses. They served each dragon a glass of wine. The old dragon called for a toast and they all drank the wine. Shortly afterward, they began to shake and foam at the mouth. They had all been poisoned. They all died.”

“Did the mice have a plan in place to deal with the political upheaval and regional instability that would result from such an action?” he asked dryly. 

“Abelas, I haven’t even asked the question yet. Also, that’s not the point. Are you ready for the question?”

“Go on.” 

“Where was the poison?”

He hummed, thinking. “There was something in the glasses to begin with.”

“No. They were clean and empty.”

“They added something while they poured.” He glanced back at her and she shook her head.

“The dragons were watching, remember?”

“They added it before it was sealed somehow.”

She said nothing, slightly pleased that he had not yet figured it out.

“Alright, what is the answer? Am I correct?” he asked, bemused.

“I’ll give you a hint. It had nothing to do with the wine or the glasses. The mice had already killed the dragons before you even started paying attention.”

She waited for his response, or another question, but he simply bowed his head, shoulders dropping, and remained silent. Shift. Drag. Step. Pain. She frowned, then limped faster to catch up to him and grabbed his arm. He turned, a haunted sadness written across his face in the softening dark.

“What is it?”

“It is the story of Mythal’s betrayal. I did not realize at first, because it has been twisted and diluted through the ages. She was killed during a meeting called for false negotiations, not by mice, but by the other dragons - corrupted, twisted by jealousy and paranoia. And it was over before we even started paying attention.” He closed his eyes for a moment and whispered something in Elvhen under his breath. He looked exhausted.

Their breath hung in the air between them and she opened her mouth like she was going to say something, only she didn’t know what to say. She had not considered that even her childhood riddles contained echoes of their history - history he had lived through, blamed himself for. For a moment she felt disoriented, like she was watching the sun rise in the west. 

“We will stop here,” he declared, pointing over her shoulder toward what looked like a small hill ringed with a stand of massive pine trees, their sharp outlines blurring into the darkness. As she followed behind him, too weary to argue, he set the wards. 

“I will link you to the wards tonight. I...apologize for not doing it before. You should have been warned when the Sentinel’s approached.”

She murmured her thanks as they reached the crest of the hill, grass covered and surrounded by a ring of stones, waist high and set vertically into the earth. She ran her hand over the lichen covered surface of one, feeling along carvings that may have once been runes or writing but had weathered away to almost nothing. She glanced up to see Abelas examining the one next to her. “Do you know what it says?” 

He traced a spiraling pattern with his fingertip. “No, it is not Elvhen or any writing I recognize. But it is old, very old, as are the trees here, perhaps even from a time before the Veil. It may have been a place of ritual or burial, from some lost people that rose and fell and passed on without leaving anything more lasting than this.”

She looked up at the towering trees, their branches silhouetted against the gray sky that was quickly fading to black. “This _ is _ something. And more than some get.” She swallowed back the lump in her throat. No trees had been planted over the bodies of her clan, as was the Dalish custom. Nothing marked where they had passed. Someone had arranged for saplings to be delivered to Skyhold in their honor though, and she had dug each hole herself. Some with her bare hands under the cover of night - screaming soundlessly, nails split, fingers bleeding, clawing at the ground, just to feel something. 

She slowly curled and uncurled her fingers.

“This is true,” he said quietly. _ “Nuva era i’u’vunen.” _[May they dream with the stars.] He began to rig a tarp by tying it to some of the overhanging branches. “Are you worried about sleeping here if it is a burial ring?” 

“No,” she said, holding one corner of the tarp in place for him while he attached a rope. “There are worse things than bones under the earth.”

“That is also true.”

She stood, observing him for a moment and then sighed. “Abelas, if you believe that fate directs our path, do you think there’s a reason we’re both here? Of all the places and times we could have met.” She picked up another corner of the tarp. “Personally, I’m more inclined to believe it’s just random luck, but if it is more than that - maybe this means something. Maybe we can change things and the world doesn’t have to… to burn to bring back what you’ve lost. Maybe we can make something new. Something better.” He took the corner from her and tightened a loop of rope around it, then turned away and began to lay out his bedroll.

She remembered the way he’d looked when he wiped the tear off her cheek, his eyes like the dawn, and she, the fading edge of night. 

“There are still things worth saving here,” she continued as she followed suit, retrieving her own bedding and laying it next to his under the tarp. “We, the Inquisition, we were making progress. Before it fell apart from political pressure and internal spies, we were a… a multinational coalition that had set a good portion of lower Thedas onto a more equal path - even the Chantry.” He was busy removing the vambrace from his forearm, his face shadowed in the dark. She walked closer to him. “In two years, we stopped a war, gave mages more autonomy, and began working to have the Dales reinstated for the elves... Not to mention, we stopped an ancient magister from destroying the world. Of course we could have done more - I want elves to be free as well - but change comes slowly.” She shook her head. “We need more time.”

“The People were once immortal.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth as he slowly rolled the cotton underlayer up to his elbow, the fabric sticking and stained red from the gash on his forearm.

She clicked her tongue. She'd assumed he'd healed it after the attack. “I thought you said most lived to be about 500 years old.” She conjured a tiny magelight, just enough to see the extent of his wound. “You should have healed this earlier. It’s a mess.”

“It is not so bad," he muttered, moving his arm closer to the light, and she shook her head. "And I said most entered uthenera then, and let their dreaming minds roam the Fade, but it was a choice. Some lived far longer.” She handed him her canteen so he could clean the cut. “Thank you. But you talk of needing more time to fix this world - to bring equality and peace and knowledge - all that you have striven in vain to accomplish can be achieved in the countless ages we will have once the ive’an’aria falls and our immortality is restored.” 

He placed his fingers on his arm and began to heal himself and she remembered how that magic had felt when it spread down her neck and across her chest.  
  
“Yours is restored or _ all _ elves? Is that what Fen’Harel is promising them? Is it even possible?”

Abelas turned toward her, his eyes flicking over her face. “Anything is possible. You have been to the Crossroads, yes? Could you feel it?” 

The cut on his arm was reduced to an uneven red line and she extinguished the magelight, plunging them into darkness.

She waited for her eyes to readjust, thinking back, trying to remember the different sensations of that space between worlds. “It felt different - lighter somehow, like the air was thinner. The sky shimmered and the colors were brighter. I saw flowers and plants growing that no one else did - except Sera, but she’s another elf.” She tipped her head, studying him. “What does that mean?”

“It means that you have not lost your connection to the old magic. I did not think that would be the case.”

“So if the Veil falls, elves might become immortal again?”

He spread his hands, shrugging. “I suspect this is a question that cannot easily be answered. It may be the case that some regain their immortality, if they still have a strong connection to the Fade, while others do not.” He rubbed his lip ruefully. “Your dreams are strong, as I discovered last night. This may be due to your increased connection to the Fade.”

She felt herself flushing and hoped the darkness would cover it.

“Here - let me connect you to the wards, and then we should sleep.” 

“You can’t just casually mention immortality and then go to bed!”

He shrugged. “I have no answers to that yet, molain. Maybe I will learn more in dreams.” 

She grumbled, but held out her hand, and he traced a glyph on the inside of her wrist with his fingertip. “You put it on the wrist?” The magic sunk into her skin and she felt the connection form with the wards, a humming that quickly faded away, but would become an alarm in her head if anything crossed the unseen barrier.

“Why? Where do you put it?” he asked.

“Back of the hand.”

“Glyphs are easier to trace on the wrist. Gives a better connection.” 

She grunted noncommittally, not at all convinced, then headed in the opposite direction as he did to take care of basic needs before sleeping.

When she ducked under the tarp, he was kneeling on his bedroll, his palm at the center of it. A shimmer of a spell spread out from his hand and even the air grew warmer for a moment. 

He turned to her. “Would you like me to warm yours, or do you prefer to take care of it yourself?”

She remembered her outburst about the backpack earlier and her insistence she needed to do things herself. Which she did, but she typically wouldn’t have bothered warming her bedroll. Let it be, she told herself, but it stung that he saw her spellworking as incompetent. She held her hand out toward her bedroll. 

As she pulled for her magic, an image flashed in her mind as it often did - fire licking up trunks and rushing between branches, swirling overhead, wreathing the treetops in flame. Wind spreading the fire from the flax field to the forest, and the smoke, so much smoke, filtering the dawn light into a surreal glow, like something from a dream. The roar of the flames mixing with the shouts of her clan, and there was Tamlen screaming, only two, and she had stirred out of her shock to carry him away. The halla ran by with their fear-white eyes, and Papae tried to hitch them to the yoke as they jumped and rolled their heads. They had fled with only what had been in the aravels and their lives - their home of ten years burning away before their eyes. They had fled, and they had settled in a new area - an area outside Wycome. Where the flames still found them eventually. Where they now lay as ash on the ground.

She pulled and it was too much - the bedroll ignited. In a flash, she followed it with an ice spell, but the damage had been done. 

She dropped her hand to her side, surveying the remains. The blanket and bedroll were destroyed, charred and smoking and soaking wet. Unsalvageable. Wordlessly, she bent down to gather the materials. Abelas started to say something and she stopped him with a gesture. “Now might be a good time for your usual stoicism.”

She dragged the destroyed bedroll away and left it a few meters from their camp. Shift. Drag. Step. Pain. As she lumped it into a pile, white dots started to fall onto the dark fabric and then disappear. _ Ashes _ was the first wild thought that shot through her mind, sending her heart racing. But she looked up and realized it was just snow, falling down gently between dark branches and catching on her lashes.

With a shuddering breath, she limped back into the ring of stones. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Abelas where he stood stiffly by the tarp so she sat and leaned against one of the rocks, pulling her cloak closer around her. It was going to be a long night.

“Sleep there,” he said, and she saw him point toward his bedroll out of the corner of her eye.

She shook her head. “It’s fine. I’m used to the cold,” she said dully.

“It’s snowing,” he said, and something in his voice caused her to look up at him. He was staring up at the sky, a soft expression on his face. “It has been a long time since I’ve seen snow. You should sleep. I am content to sit and watch this. I’ve slept a lot.”

“That’s not necessary, Abelas. I screwed up, you don’t have to suffer for my mistakes.”

“Molain. I can manage. I have endured worse than this.”

She rubbed her face with her hand, exhausted, tired of fighting. “Fine,” she said and got slowly to her feet again. 

She shrugged off her cloak and balled it into a pillow then tucked herself under his heated blanket, facing away from him. There was something warm about the way it smelled, like wood smoke drifting on a summer night, like an open field in sunshine, and just like... him.

A narrow bed, a thumb on her cheek, a scar from a dull knife, a loneliness that cut as deep as her own - maybe these were the reasons she said what she did next, though even as her lips shaped the words, it felt as if they came from someone else’s mouth.

“We can share it.” 

The light breeze through the sleeping pines was the only sound and she glanced over her shoulder, heart racing, to see if he’d even heard.

From the way he was looking at her, he had definitely heard.

She continued in a rush, “I mean, it’s practical and I’m used to sharing small spaces - aravels might have been more comfortable than a tent, but they weren’t a whole lot bigger.” Though, she hadn’t actually shared a bunk most of the time. “You’re going to freeze if you try to sleep out there.”

After a long moment where her heartbeat was the only thing she heard, to her surprise, he nodded once, and then looked away. She swallowed, a strange tightness in her chest. Stupid, she told herself, so stupid.

A moment later, he came and sat behind her and she could feel the heat of his back even though they were not touching. She heard him remove his boots and some parts of his armor, probably his pauldrons and vambraces at least, then carefully lay down next to her. His arm brushed her back as he pulled up the blanket and he quickly moved it away. What had she been thinking? 

They lay silently for a moment and she tried to get more comfortable without intruding on his space.

“The poison was in the ink,” he said, and his voice was a rumble she felt in her chest.

“Yes.” She didn’t ask if that had been the way Mythal had been killed. Probably not - he would have guessed right away, and no doubt it took more than that to kill a god.

“I will stop calling you molain if it bothers you.”

She hadn’t expected him to say that, but she still whispered “Ok,” even though somewhere along the way it had stopped bothering her, and started to feel like one of Varric’s endless pet names.

“Goodnight.”

She watched the snowflakes drifting down onto silent stones, and into dark grass, and through shadowy boughs, falling gently, dulling the edges of familiar forms and turning everything into something new. Solas never had a nickname for her. She'd always been Nepenthe to him. Or Inquisitor. Or nothing.

“Abelas?” 

“Yes?”

She chewed her lip. “You can still call me molain.”

He hummed behind her, a warm sound, nearly a laugh. “Goodnight, molain.”

She tucked the blanket closer around her. “Goodnight, Abelas.” And she told herself it was only the warmth of the blanket that made her feel like something had kindled inside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> molain = little mouse
> 
> My brain: Well... you did it.  
Me: I don't know what you mean.  
My brain: Just say it.  
Me: Are you sure? You're not mad?  
My brain: *sigh* go on...  
Me: OH NO!!!! THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED!!!  
My brain: Got there in a real angsty way. That's something I guess.
> 
> Also!! I have [art of the babes!!](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187183021@N05/49596428021/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> You can also [find me on Tumblr](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/)!


	16. Focus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter recap: Nepenthe and Abelas defeated Andruil's sentinel, Nepenthe told him a fable about mice and dragons, and in the end, there was only one bedroll...
> 
> Big thanks to faerieavalon for help with Elven words and to littlefische for her beta help!
> 
> We get briefly NSFW in the beginning paragraphs here, I'm upping the rating to E, but things won't be smut heavy for a while (cause SLOW BURNNN, also, don't kill me after you read XD)
> 
> Content warning: mention of off-screen death of a child

There was a flash of blinding green light as a searing pain tore across Nepenthe’s palm. The smell of burnt flesh hung in the air and she realized it was from her own hand. Someone was screaming. It might have been her. Oh gods… Her hand. Her hand was splitting. _You’re getting the mark. This is only a memory._ But the pain. It was too much. She was going to pull apart. 

The green energy pulsed out, wreathing her in burning Veil fire, then briefly flared incandescent. As the light and the pain slowly faded away, shapes of the Fade became more visible through the flash-bright spots in her vision. _This is only a memory. _

But this was not the pale greenish light she remembered from her first trip to the Fade. This was red. Pulsing, glowing, angry red. Red that grew in monoliths, jutting out of the ground at odd angles, crystalline spires rising high over her head. She turned around slowly, a feeling of mounting dread creeping along her spine. Even the alternate future in Redcliffe had not had so much red lyrium as this. This was like a web at the scale of mountains, veins of it twisting away to create maze-like corridors. Even the air seemed to be blighted, hanging heavy and hazy in front of her eyes. It was thick like poison, like something that could take the shape of her lungs when she breathed it in.

And the lyrium pulsed. Not just the light, though that was getting brighter and dimmer in waves. No, there was something else. A sound. A whispering that faded away just as she thought she could make out words and then returned, like an itch on the inside of her skull. Something she couldn’t quite hear. 

Her own pulse thrummed in her ears and she tried to quiet her ragged breathing. The crawling itch returned and the whispering grew slightly louder, and she suddenly got the visceral sense that this was not something she should try to hear. That it would, in fact, be very bad to hear. The itch intensified, hooks catching in her mind, and she ran without thinking, her pounding footsteps swallowed in a winding maze. The corridors seemed to go on forever, growing narrower, the spikes of lyrium stretching higher. There was no way out, everything was blighted. The walls closed in, the lyrium was too close, she couldn’t breathe.

_No, this is not right. This is not real. _She grabbed her palm, still burning from the mark, and squeezed.

With a gasp, she awoke in her bed at Skyhold. It was still night, but she was safe, warm, tucked into the comforting weight of her duvet. She blew out her breath, muscles going limp with relief. Laying on her side, just breathing, she watched the sheer bed curtains drift on the midnight breeze, pale moonlight caught in gossamer nets. 

The bed dipped behind her. A warm weight settled at her back and an arm tucked around her chest like an old habit, drawing her closer. She breathed in, the hazy scents of wood smoke and summer fields enveloping her. Fingers laced with hers and a deep sigh by her ear whispered of contentment, security... belonging. She hummed and pressed herself against a broad, bare chest. Her racing heart slowed and time moved like water. 

After what could have been hours or mere seconds, his hand released hers, brushed over her chest then slowly traveled down her stomach. Long fingers splayed out, reaching from her sternum to her navel, soft caresses, rough calluses, dragging over sensitive skin. A press of lips against her neck, opening to nip gently along her shoulder, sending sparks scattering to her core. She arched into the touch, rolling her hips to guide his fingers lower. Her breath came faster, pleasure building along her skin like tightly woven magic. Fingertips brushed the curls at the apex of her thighs, and she gasped and shifted, opening her legs, an invitation. 

And he took it, spreading her legs wider still and stroking his fingers through her folds, a slow and thorough exploration. Long, thick fingers pressed inside her, first one and then another, working in and out rhythmically, drawing out her pleasure. Those slick fingers slid up to her clit and circled around it with such perfect pressure that her whole body clenched. Gods, she was close already. Kisses trailed up her neck, his breath ghosted across her cheek, and he groaned roughly in her ear. “_Molain_.” 

Oh, _fuck_.

Nepenthe’s eyes snapped open in the pale morning light of the waking world. She held rigidly still, her body still coiled tight with unreleased tension. The blanket was nearly over her head and there was a weight across her side and a radiating warmth at her back. They had shifted in the night, and she was trapped under Abelas’s arm, his deep breathing pressing his chest more firmly against her back with each inhale. 

What had that just been? 

She’d had sex dreams before, of course, but none that had been so… unexpected. Or confusing. 

She’d stumbled into Solas’s dream once, where they had their first kiss, but after that he’d been insistent that their relationship take place in the waking world. She realized later he’d probably taken measures as they slept to ensure it did so - another way to keep her at arm's length. But Abelas… she’d managed to pull him into _her_ dream the night before. Had she done it again? Had they really just… Or had it simply been a dream - h er own traitorous brain or some capricious spirit playing with her thoughts?

Maybe she could slip out of the bedroll without disturbing him and pretend nothing happened. 

Hardly daring to breathe, she slowly began to shift her torso. An inch, another. If she could just get enough room to rotate her hips and transfer her weight...

He was on her before she could react. He flipped her onto her back and pinned her between his thighs, grabbing her arms and pressing them into the ground over her head. The air crackled around her with the charge of magic and the hair on her arms stood on end as the ring in her ear began to whine.

“What are you _doing_?” She bucked against his hold, her legs tangling with the blanket as she tried to kick him. “Get off!”

He looked down at her, his face only inches away, nostrils flaring and jaw clenched, eyes wild and dark. Then he blinked, seemed to come back to himself, and his gaze softened even though his expression did not change. 

“Get off!” She jerked under him, twisting her shoulders.

He instantly released her arms and rolled off, settling beside her with his arms resting on his knees. He flexed his fingers, his long, thick fingers, and dispelled the last of the energy he’d gathered. “My apologies. Old habits.” 

She sat up slowly, watching him warily and rubbing her elbow. “Yeah, understood. Just... don’t accidentally kill me. You wouldn’t survive out here for long.” 

“Debatable. _I_ know how to find an _adahl’ean _now.” His tone hinted there was something he found amusing about this.

“Why is that funny?”

He cleared his throat, inspecting the underside of the tarp. “Ah… _Adahl’ean _was a slang term for a… body part. The mushroom somewhat resembles it.”

She continued to watch him for a moment, to see if he was joking, and when it was clear he wasn’t, she rolled her eyes and turned away. Wonderful. Another thing her people had gotten wrong - the mushroom named for a penis and not a bird. Though, given its shape, it did make a lot more sense. She bit her lip, hard, unsure if she was holding back laughter or tears, until she snorted and began to giggle. It quickly took on a slightly hysterical edge as exhaustion and confusion collided and made it hard to stop. She put her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes, taking shaky breaths through her nose as her shoulders shook. 

“_Molain?_”

His voice reminded her of the dream and it was like a bucket of water extinguishing a candle flame. She stilled. “I’m ok.”

He nodded, frowning. “We should move soon.” But instead of getting out of the bedroll, he began undoing his braid, combing his fingers through methodically.

She wiped her eyes and scanned the clearing. An inch or so of freshly fallen snow lay on the ground - the Fade pathways would be invaluable today. Out of the cocooned warmth of the bedroll, the air stung her nose and she shivered and turned to pull on her cloak, covertly studying his expression as she did so. He seemed unperturbed, if exhausted, with dark circles beginning to appear under his eyes. She wondered if the nights felt like they passed in minutes instead of hours to him. Or if he was tired of sleeping.

“Did you…have a good night’s sleep?”

“It was fine,” he said evenly, his fingers working nimbly to divide his hair into sections.

She fiddled with the clasp of her cloak. “Find anything interesting in the Fade? Anything about immortality?” 

He sighed. “No. I suspect answers will not come so easily. And dreams may only lead to more questions.”

She held his gaze, her heart pounding, trying to figure out if that was a veiled reference to another shared dream, but he was unreadable. Until he frowned at the prolonged eye contact and asked suspiciously, “Why? Did you find anything interesting?”

She glanced away, shrugging. “No,” she said nonchalantly. “Just more questions.”

He was too composed. It had not been him, just her own thoughts... _Fenedhis_. She ran her hand up into her hair, where it got tangled in the mess of her unwashed curls. She needed a bath. She needed a break. She needed a horse.

She groaned and stirred, willing her aching limbs to get her through another day of travel. 

They packed up their small camp quietly, brushing the snow off the tarp, both of them lost in their own thoughts. Abelas studied the snow covered remains of her bedroll, but did not say anything, and she was glad for that. Nepenthe chewed on the stem of a burdock leaf and choked down another of the mudweed cakes. Afterward, she rinsed out her mouth, gagging and grimacing, then spit into the snow. When she looked up, Abelas was watching her with a look of vague horror on his face and she held up the pouch toward him, a silent invitation to have one. He declined, shaking his head slowly, and looking at her like she’d just presented him with a sack of giant spider guts. In return, he offered some of his own rations, a bar of mashed up dried fruits and nuts, which she accepted a small piece of. 

“Does everyone in Fen’Harel’s army eat so well?” she asked, chewing thoughtfully. It was good, really good. 

He stepped closer and handed her another piece. “Join us and you can find out.” The fact that he sometimes had a sense of humor was still surprising every time it surfaced. 

She snorted. “Trade my ideals for a fruit bar?” she asked and popped it into her mouth anyway.

“Well… some of us have good armor, too.” 

She gave him an appraising look as she chewed, her gaze traveling from his shoulders to his feet and back again. “Tempting,” she deadpanned. 

His eyes widened slightly and she could swear a faint blush appeared along his cheeks. The image of him out of that good armor suddenly came back to her, and the clever retort she had ready got stuck on her tongue. She turned away to finish packing her bag, hiding her face within her hood. “If only there wasn’t that pesky end goal of destroying my world,” she said quickly instead and shoved her hand into her bag with the same intensity as she shoved her other thoughts away. Keep to the tasks at hand. 

The wound in her thigh throbbed and burned, but she waited to inspect it until Abelas was distracted with the last of his gear, then brushed the snow off a log and sat down to unwrap the bandage. The skin was raised and red along the seam of the wound, slightly warm under the back of her fingers, but the skin was still healing, and it wasn’t... definitely infected. Still, she should be more careful - too many healing spells would only suppress her own body’s ability to fight off infection. 

She pulled her kit out of her pack and set it on the log next to her, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Abelas was still busy with his pack. No doubt he saw her as liability enough even without the wound getting worse. Though he claimed he was following orders, and seemed determined to keep her alive, she’d rather not put it to the test if she became truly incapacitated.

As she struggled to add dried elfroot to a tin of salve, the tin slipped out from under her arm and landed on the ground, scattering flakes of the herb across the snow. She swore softly to herself but before she could pick it up, Abelas had grabbed it. Wordlessly, he motioned for her to give him the bag of elfroot, his eyes briefly flicking to her leg. Out of the immediate danger of the assassin’s attack or her injuries escaping the temple, he seemed more reserved in his care, and simply handed the tin back to her before walking away. She was glad, after her dreams from last night, she was not sure she wanted to think about his fingers on her skin.

She finished wrapping the bandage and rejoined him at the ring of stones. Sunlight glittered off the snow capped tops of the stelae and the frosted boughs of the trees. Between the long shadows, birds called to each other, and suddenly a flock of starlings lifted from the pines, drifting upward in a complex murmuration. They both tipped their heads back, tracking the birds into the sky. Something inside her clenched at the sight and she imagined being one of them. One amongst many, flowing in an elemental pattern, a piece of an intuitive web that sounded like waves and flowed like water. Each small movement echoing in ripples across a vast, undulating sea, lifting and diving on those same echoes as they returned. A single moment unfurling infinitely. She closed her eyes. And for a heartbeat, this was enough.

* * *

“Molain. Why do you not cast with a staff?”

She frowned, aiming a suspicious glance in his direction. He had widened the Fade path so they could walk abreast after she had snipped that she was tired of looking at his back and falling off the side every time she stumbled. It had not been a gracious request, and he’d responded patiently and humored her, which just made it worse. He was doing his best to make sure they were not tracked, she knew that, just as surely as she knew it would not matter.

“I meant no offense. It seems that the mages of your time have adopted staffs as their method of controlling magic and yet, you do not carry one.”

She edged closer to the center of the path, and to him, as they crossed over a dark, boggy puddle that seeped through the snow. Many more of the same dotted the landscape here, along with trees draped with a hanging moss that sparkled like frosted spider webs. Hopefully it was a sign they were finally getting closer to the Hinterlands again. Not that they were getting there very quickly with her leg.

“Why don’t you?” 

“And here I thought we were beyond simply trading information.” 

She shot him a wry smile. “You know we’re not.” 

“Alright, I will go first, and then I want your answer.” 

She tipped her head in acknowledgement. 

“They were not always needed before the Veil. Magic could be accessed by simply focusing your mind. It was not wielded with equal skill by all, of course, and there were different schools of magic, but with training, it was possible. The nature of my field lent itself to working without an external focus.”

“What was your field?”

“Energy dynamics. Creating physical matter from raw energy, conservation of energy, manipulating the properties of energy, and its practical applications.”

“Like the door. The barrier. That’s how you knew how to dispel it?”

“That was one form of energy, yes.”

“And you could create physical things from energy? By thinking them into being? And then what? Was it permanent? Can you still do that?” Her thoughts raced at the possibilities.

He rubbed his forehead. “_Ane atisha_, _molain_. [Be calm, little mouse.] You are very fast. Your world is very fast.” 

He took a deep breath and let it out in such an exaggerated display of long suffering patience that she bit back a smile. “Yes, I could create physical things by manipulating energy. The basic premise was not dissimilar from what you do with an ice spell. And yes, if they were fully transformed, they could be permanent, but the spellworking took a lot of time. Time that we do not have here.”

She frowned, trying to wrap her mind around the implications of that, and quickly found it overwhelming. “So why don’t you need a staff now?”

He scoffed lightly. “Patience. I was getting there. The _ive’an’aria_ reduces magic to a trickle. It is like trying to scrape water out of the bottom of a bowl when you are used to having the whole ocean. In time though, I was able to learn how to use that trickle and make the connection again without a focus. Or without an external focus anyway.”

She thought back, to the simple staff that Solas carried when she first met him. The leather wrapped grip, the iron head, the plain wooden shaft. An apostate’s staff. An unnecessary staff. A prop. 

“So, Solas never needed one.” 

He paused for a moment, collecting himself to respond carefully and she wished she hadn’t asked. “Likely not, though it is possible that he found it advantageous to begin with.”

She thought of the staff she’d made for him, working with Dagna to inlay the runes into the smooth ironbark, carefully wrapping the grip in gurtgut leather, attaching the blade. 

_Vhenan, I am humbled by your care, and this gift. It was not necessary._

She thought he’d been protesting the use of her time creating the staff when there was so much to do. But perhaps he’d meant it literally. It was truly not necessary. Or maybe he _had_ been genuinely touched by the gesture. Who could even say anymore when so much of their time together sunk under the weight of his confession?

She had once stepped into their conversations with the same focus as entering a battle. Words parried back and forth as she looked for some weakness, some opening that would let her in. Honing the edges of her arguments, but never finding the right words. The ones that would have made him change his mind, would have made him stay. If such words existed, had ever existed, they were not in any tongue she knew.

And sometimes she’d glimpsed an undefinable sadness in his eyes as he turned away, as if loving her cost him something, tore pieces from him, made him less instead of more. And how she had tried to fill those voids - had tried to build him up, tried to please him, tried to smooth the edges of herself that seemed too rough. Each of them desperately carving out parts of themselves to make the other fit. A hopeless effort that had reduced them both to rubble. A foundation that could never be built upon.

“A staff may have helped him when he first awoke," Abelas continued haltingly, as if he could sense her thoughts. "He explained that he was weak when he returned to the waking world from his long time in uthenera."

She pulled herself out of her reflections. Solas was gone, and there were answers to be had here. “How did that actually work? I heard that elves in uthenera needed to be tended - that a mix of honey and herbs was needed to keep them alive.”

He turned his head sharply. “Yes, that is true. Likely some of his followers had that responsibility.”

“Seems like a big commitment for hundreds or thousands of years.” She had not considered that Solas had planned to enter uthenera after creating the Veil, or that he had at least known it would so deplete him he’d need to. Or that there may still be ancient agents loyal to him. She felt a strange mix of apprehension and jealousy toward these unknown elves who had associated with him before the Veil and had watched over him while he slept. They’d had access to a version of him she’d never known. She was about to ask Abelas about them when he continued. 

“At Mythal’s temple, we eventually needed to take over the roles of the _shalelan’taelvunala_, the servants who were tasked with watching over those in uthenera.” 

“Why? What happened to them?” Nepenthe asked warily.

“They began aging. All of us did, but it was not noticeable at first. We did not know. After what happened, after the _i've'an'aria_, we became increasingly cut off. The _inor’alas'enaan_ [crossroads] crumbled, some eluvians only led to islands of rock and desolation, others stopped working entirely - the places they led no longer existed. Whole sections of the network were lost to us, and the people with them. There was unrest, upheaval, bloodshed. People called to their gods and they did not answer.” 

He was silent for a moment, and she waited, not willing to interrupt his thoughts. Then he shook his head and clenched his jaw. “But you had asked about uthenera. After Mythal’s death, many of the lay servants were released from her service and though some stayed, others drifted away in time. But the Sentinels - we were bound to the _vir’abelasan_. And so we remained. In time, we decided to set wards and enter uthenera, waking only to defend the temple. But the _shalelan’taelvunala_ needed to remain in the waking world to tend to us. They aged. They woke us when they realized, but it was too late. In time, they all entered uthenera themselves. And then we took on their role, in shifts. When one Sentinel reached the end of their watch, they would wake the next.”

“So, sometimes you were just awake in the temple for years by yourself?”

“Not for years. Six months. We kept to the same schedule of duty rotation. It was the best way to ensure the vir’abelasan would always have a guardian. We did not know how long we would need to survive.”

She swallowed, absently twisting the cuff in her ear. _You cannot imagine. Each time we wake it slips further from our grasp. _And after all that - after all those years of duty and sacrifice and uncertainty - the Well had ended up in Morrigan’s head. And had gone silent. What had been the point of it all? All those wasted years, when Mythal had been with Morrigan’s own mother all along. What was the point of leaving Abelas bound to the Well and forsaking the Sentinels? What was the _point_? Both of them were being used like pawns on some divine chess board. Her throat itched and her mouth drew into a line. 

“That upsets you.” 

She looked down, wishing she was less transparent. She could not unleash these thoughts on him, that all his life had unraveled and come to this. She smoothed her features, licked her lips, and responded levelly. “It sounds lonely. It sounds like you deserved better.”

“It was duty.” He paused briefly. “After you came... then it was years alone.”

She looked at him sharply, guilt scratching under her skin. “You didn’t go to him right away?”

His expression was flat, shuttered behind responsibility and discipline. “No. I remained in the Arbor Wilds. The other Sentinels left.”

Their pace had slowed enough that she stopped and turned to him. “Why did you stay?” she asked quietly, knowing she was once again failing to keep her thoughts off her face.

He shook his head slowly. “Don’t look at me like that, molain. We do not always get to choose the path we walk.”

She pursed her mouth and looked pointedly at the path glowing under their feet then back at him, raising an eyebrow.

That faintly annoyed or amused expression flickered over his features again. “It is not so simple.” He glanced down at her amputated arm. “As you well know.”

“Maybe it should be.” She was pushing, for her sake or his, she couldn’t say, but he’d admitted to questioning and if anything was going to shake him loose from his duty, it was that. Finally questioning. 

His eyes flicked away toward something over her shoulder. “We are not alone.” 

She spun around as a huge, distorted figure crept out from behind a spur of rock to their left. It shifted itself along on grotesquely elongated limbs ending in skeletal fingers and sharp claws, lashing it’s thin tail around itself like a whip. It sensed them instantly, fixing them with its multitude of empty eyes and screeching as it stretched open its gaping mouth to reveal row upon row of jagged teeth.

“Terror demon.” She rolled her shoulders back, cracked her neck, and shook her arms out as she snapped her Fade hand into place. This was the kind of fight she liked. Simple. No unknown elven magic. No nuances of politics or morality. Just the ebb and flow of magic and defense, her strength against the demon’s. As long as they kept their fears in check, it should be a quick fight.

The screeching changed as the demon crouched to attack - no longer the high pitched howling of an animal, but the crying of a child, wild and terrified. She knew that cry, had imagined it in her nightmares. The helpless, despairing cry of her cousin’s child, Tamlen, as the mob cut her clan down. The demon phased back into the Fade, preparing to launch a stealth attack.

But the sound still echoed in her head, amplified, doubling back and back and back, until it was everything. Screaming that would never end. The demon’s, Tamlen’s, her own. She broke under the sound, like it was a thousand blades through her body. Her head felt thick and heavy and the edges of her vision dimmed - she was barely aware of Abelas somewhere next to her, scanning for where the demon would make its attack. 

She was losing consciousness. Her eyelids flickered and the world seemed to tilt sideways as she gulped air, trying to fight back, and still Tamlen’s crying continued, a litany of wracking sobs and terror. And then his voice calling over and over - _mamae, mamae, mamae_. 

“No,” she gritted out, her throat raw. “No.” She clawed with her Fade hand, pressing into the connection as the magic rushed to her fingertips. “No!” She screamed it, her vision stabilizing. “You do not get to have him. That fear has no power over me. That fear has happened. You... have no power… over ME.” As she shouted the last word, the demon materialized before her, claws swiping at her face and she released her spell, a crackling wire of energy that wrapped around it, binding it. She clenched her fingers and yanked her hand back, the strands of magic following as they tightened and sliced the demon into pieces.

With a series of wet plops, the chunks of demon fell to the ground and disintegrated into rubbery piles of viscera. 

Nepenthe swayed on her feet, clutching onto magic that was no longer there and taking short, ragged breaths. She shivered violently and put her hand out to steady herself and Abelas caught her elbow, looking down at her with a mixture of concern and compassion. The spell had taken more out of her than she would have expected. 

She glanced up and then away. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t deserve it.” 

“Was it bad?” His voice was strained and she wondered what fear of his own the demon had exploited.

She shook her head, not willing to speak it aloud, but the motion set off a new wave of dizziness. When it passed, she pulled her arm out of his grip. “We should scout the rocks, see if there’s a hidden rift.” Doing something, anything, was better than thinking about what she’d heard. She glanced down at her arm. “Though if there is, we’re kind of screwed.”

They discovered an opening to a cave hidden in the rocks. The path inside was narrow and sloping, but there were no signs of a rift yet. She motioned to Abelas with her head that she was going in, and he followed her. 

“The snare was an interesting technique,” he said quietly. “How do you get it to tighten?”

She steadied herself on the cave wall, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. “If you can stoop to learning from someone so _Dalish_, maybe I’ll teach you someday.”

He took a breath behind her. The silence stretched in the dim light of the cave, and she realized she’d been waiting for the slight, so sure it was coming, that she’d lashed out first. She chewed the inside of her lip and obstinately pressed forward.

“I have apologized for misjudging you. And I think you truly wish to direct your anger toward another.”

“You’re not exempt,” she said stubbornly. “The things you want to do. It won’t be as simple as you think.” 

“It never is.”

“So, if you know this, why not -” She broke off as a faint red glow caught her attention from deeper in the cave. “Shit. Is that what I think it is?” 

She moved closer, keeping her back toward the cave wall and picking her way over loose rocks. The red glow grew brighter as they approached.

When they came around a corner, the source of the light was revealed - immense shards of red lyrium protruded from the cavern floor, a sickly aurora swirling around them. It reminded her of smoke and blood, of something festering and wrong.

She sucked a breath between her teeth.  “It’s thinning the Veil enough for demons to slip through,” she said bleakly. “Unless something in particular attracted that one here. I’m not even sure there’s anything we can do.”

Some of the Inquisition’s researchers had been looking into it, but their preliminary results weren’t encouraging - red lyrium seemed nearly impossible to eradicate by either physical or magical means.

And it seemed to be spreading all over Thedas. Besides the proliferation in the Emprise du Lion, they’d found it at the Storm Coast, the Emerald Graves, and the Western Approach. There’d been several nodes in the southern Hinterlands - it was not surprising to find it here as well. 

“What?” she turned back toward Abelas, her ears ringing. 

“I did not say anything.” His voice was a whisper, and his eyes did not leave the lyrium. The look on his face was grim and cold.

Something seemed off about his reaction and she studied him more closely. 

“You’ve seen this before.” 

His frown deepened. “It was sealed away. That should have been the end of it. How did this happen?”

“How did red lyrium spread all over Thedas? How should I know? Something to do with the Breach, I think.”

His jaw worked, his eyes cutting back between the red lyrium and her face several times. 

Realization dawned like a strike to her chest. “Elves had something to do with it, didn’t they?” 

She shook her head slowly when he did not answer. Another secret. “What was it? What did you do?” 

He held her gaze for a moment, then turned, starting to head out of the cave. “We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molain = little mouse  
Adahl’ean = (lit.) wood bird (mushroom and slang for cock, lololol)  
shalelan’taelvun = (lit.) Protector of the next life - servant for those in uthenera  
inor’alas'enaan = crossroads (lit. between worlds)  
Vir’abelasan = Well of sorrows
> 
> Me: anything to say, brain?  
My brain: ::sustained incoherent screaming::  
Me: ::closes the door and backs away slowly::
> 
> Heyyyyyy - but really, thank you all for your patience as this chapter struggled to come to life with everything going on. Your comments and kudos help keep me motivated and sane. I appreciate you all more than I can express, and I hope you are staying healthy and safe. ❤️ ❤️ ❤️


	17. Dagna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on:  
Relevant for this chapter, Dagna recently got one of the ancient elven artifacts delivered to Skyhold. 
> 
> Thanks to TheLittlestFische and Faerieavalon for their beta help!

“Well, it’s definitely doing _something_ to the Veil.” Dagna turned away from the activated elven artifact and made a note in her journal. 

_Check frequency every six hours - changing? weird? _

“I wonder how the artifact would have reacted to the mark.” She tapped her chin, mentally calculating the experiments she could have run. “Shame I didn’t get to test that.” She started to jot down another note, then stopped and glanced up at Sera, who was sitting at the edge of a table, legs dangling. “Also a shame because our friend lost her hand. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

Sera snorted. “Your secret’s safe with me, widdle. Plus, we’re all going to lose a lot more bits than just hands if Lord Elvhen Glory gets his way.” She hefted the screwdriver in her hand as if she was testing its balance. “Ugh. Piss. I don’t even want to think about it. It’s too much. Too big, you know?”

“We’ll find something. We’ll find a way to stop him.”

“Yeah? How can you be so sure?”

“Well…” Dagna smiled and shrugged. “I’m really good at what I do.” 

“Fair play. But he’s still out _there_.” Sera gestured out the opening in the undercroft. “Doing stuff all sneaky-like. And we’re in here. And there’s nothing I can even put an arrow in.” She slammed the tip of the screwdriver into the table.

Dagna flinched. “Hey! Try not to destroy the tools. Never know when you’ll need them for hinges again,” she teased, hoping to divert Sera from a spiral into anxious ranting.

“Oh piss!” Sera cackled. “You knew that was me? Right, listen - that was before we were… you know. And it was supposed to be for Harritt.”

Dagna giggled, remembering the time she’d opened the undercroft door only to have the whole thing fall inward with a resounding crash because the hinges had been removed. “Well, I was pretty sure it wasn’t Josie.”

“Right? Could you imagine?” Sera slapped her hand on her yellow plaid covered thigh. “She’d get tied in knots just thinking about it.”

Sera pushed herself off the table, sending a number of glass vials clinking into each other, and landed lightly on the floor in front of Dagna’s workbench. She gave the artifact a suspicious glare and her face fell again. Apparently, reminders of past pranks were not enough to take her mind off of whatever was bothering her. 

“Why’d he want us to turn all these on? Makes no sense. You want to tear something down, you don’t make it stronger, you punch holes in it.”

“I kind of have a theory on that...” Dagna picked up her pencil and tapped it on her paper a few times, then began sketching. 

“Say you have a window.” She drew a rectangle, then divided it into a pattern of large diamonds with quick diagonal lines. “If it’s full of holes, or even if it’s just cracked, there’s the risk of it breaking more, or breaking in ways you don’t want, and that wouldn’t be good.” She scribbled in lines to indicate cracks and jagged holes. “There’s sharp edges, pieces fall out, light comes through... except in this case the light is actually demons…” She waved her hand quickly. “Ignore that. So a window full of holes might actually be _more_ difficult to try to take down, but... if these devices repair the cracks and holes…” She grabbed her eraser and removed the lines she’d added. “You’re left with a solid window and it’s a lot easier to take it out!” 

“That’s worse!” Sera wrung her hands together as she began pacing around the table. “We did the work for him and now he can just rip it out? And we can’t even see what we did ‘cause it’s magic. Always friggin’ magic messing up the world!” 

Dagna studied her sympathetically. They’d had similar discussions before around Sera’s fear of magic. She should probably let it be but the rational part of her mind insisted on clarity above all else. “You use potions that make you invisible. And ones that slow down baddies. Or confuse them. If you combine the right ingredients, they have a new effect - some would call that magic. And I work with magic all the time.” 

“Yeah, but it’s not really _magic_ magic. It’s useful. Does things that make sense. This feels…” She trailed off and bit her lip. “Ugh… all elfy. Wonky.” 

She shuddered and shook her hands like they were covered with some unpleasant substance, and Dagna reached out and pressed them between her own to keep them still. It felt like there was something Sera wasn’t quite saying, but she didn’t press.

“Don’t get scrambled by this thing,” Sera said, looking utterly miserable.

“Well, I’m yours no matter what - scrambled, poached, or sunny side up,” Dagna said cheerfully in an attempt to be reassuring and Sera made a face. “I won’t get scrambled!” Dagna put her arms around Sera’s waist and drew her close, holding tight to keep the fear at bay.

Sera huffed a sigh, but let herself be drawn into the embrace and return it. “I need to drink _everything_ after all this Veil shite. Come to the tavern later?” 

“I just need to finish separating the wavelengths…” Dagna briefly squeezed tighter, pressing her cheek against Sera’s chest, and then released her, turning back toward the instruments glowing in the pulsing green light. 

Sera clicked her tongue. “Widdle, don’t forget to eat. Dinner? Real food? See you later, yeah?”

“I’ll eat! I promise!” Dagna briefly glanced up from her work to flash what she hoped was a reassuring smile. From Sera’s dubious expression, she’d obviously managed to look more crazed than reassuring.

Hours later, Dagna pulled the heavy door of the undercroft shut and locked it before hurrying down the great hall, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous, dark space. Most of the torches had gone out and the few remaining ones sent strange shadows scrolling across the walls. It was pretty, she thought, if a little lonely. It seemed that everyone else had retired for the night and the staff had not bothered to relight the torches. Not an uncommon occurrence these days when there were so few of them left. _Maybe there was a way to create something that would keep them lit longer, or a way to quickly relight them all when needed, some kind of tubing perhaps…_

She continued to mull it over as she descended the large stone staircase leading into the courtyard. The lights at the tavern were still burning bright, which was a comfort. She’d lost track of time, again, as she focused on her experiments with the artifact. But she was close to something, some kind of echo, or, hard to tell, maybe a signal... She shook her head. The measurements were running. She’d check them in the morning. Hopefully Sera had saved her something for dinner. A pint would be nice, too. She rubbed her hands together briskly as she crossed the courtyard - the temperature seemed to have dropped more in the last day.

The wind gusted and a crash behind her made her squeak and spin around. But it was only an empty crate that had blown over in the sparring ring. 

_Empty crate. Empty ring. Empty courtyard. Empty fortress. _

So much of what had been assembled had been swept away - so much of what had made Skyhold a home, scattered to the winds. It had been necessary, she reasoned. After the Inquisition had disbanded, the fortress needed to be boring and safe so that officials from Ferelden and Orlais didn't find cause to oust everyone from it or ignite another round of fighting between the nations. 

Still, it was sad to see what had become of it. But with change comes innovation, she thought, and there was something undeniably exciting about working with little official oversight on a project that no one had studied before. Or at least no one now living. 

She pulled open the door to the tavern and was greeted with a blast of warm air and the familiar scents of stale beer and fresh bread. The staff must have finished the transition from the enormous kitchens in the main keep to the more modest set up here. Another concession to feeding a hundred mouths instead of thousands. 

It was quiet in the tavern, too. But not empty. The fire burned bright in the hearth and Maryden was still playing, though she must be almost done for the night. A scout scraped a chair across the floor to join her companions around a large table, and farther back, a group of the Chargers were in their usual place, playing cards on top of upturned barrels. Dagna waved to Cabot at the bar and nodded to Maryden as she took the stairs to the second landing. 

“I don’t know, Sera.” Bull’s voice boomed from the table across the landing where he sat with Sera and Krem.

Sera slapped the table. “It would work - widdle!” She broke off, then giggled. “Work widdle.” 

Dagna slid onto the bench next to Sera, wrapping her arms around her waist and tipping her head up as Sera kissed her on the nose. It felt good. Good and new. They’d only been together a few months. So much had changed in that time. But this felt good. 

Sera pushed a lukewarm bowl of stew and a plate of bread in front of Dagna and she began to eat, suddenly starving. Before she’d even had a second mouthful, Cabot arrived at the table with another round and placed large pewter mugs in front of each of them, trading gibes with Bull and Krem as he did so.

“Sorry widdle. We tried to wait,” Sera offered as Cabot cleared away empty dishes. 

Dagna waved the apology away. “You didn’t have to! I was late. You know how it goes, face in the work, head forgets the outside world.”

Sera squeezed her thigh and raised her eyebrows suggestively. “I’ll help you remember, yeah?” Dagna smiled and leaned into her side. She smelled like cookies and metal and smoke.

Bull banged his open palm on the table and raised his mug. “To the few and the proud.”

“None of that sad sack shite!” Sera broke in. “To nice tits!” 

Dagna giggled and they all repeated the phrase, clinking their mugs together as Leliana came into view on the open staircase. 

“Sorry to have missed that toast,” she smirked as she approached, carrying a cup of tea. She walked with a casual pace, but she held herself tightly and her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Something was wrong. At least they’d probably find out what it was. With the reduction in staff and the general reorganization, Nepenthe had insisted that all of them work together more closely.

Bull pulled out the chair next to him and gestured for Leliana to sit. “You eaten yet? I’ll see what I can charm from the kitchen. Redhead there took a fancy to me.”

“I thought it was the other way ‘round, Boss,” Krem interjected.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t ruin my reputation. Don’t want to break any hearts.”

“Thanks for the offer, Bull. I’ve eaten and I won’t stay long,” said Leliana.

Sera took a long drink, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Out with it then. What’s the news?”

Leliana adjusted her cup on the table, matching it up to cover an old water ring. “Issues with the lyrium trade. An outpost of one of the major routes was hit. It was made to look like it was desperate ex-Templars, but it doesn’t quite fit. It was too organized, for one, and the quantity was enough that it wouldn’t just vanish. But a week later, and I’m still getting reports that no one has been able to find the ‘ex-templars’ or the lyrium.”

“You think Solas then? Starting to stockpile.” Bull’s voice was grim.

Leliana inclined her head. “It wasn’t the only anomaly in the lyrium trade either. There've been multiple buyers in Tevinter covertly obtaining massive quantities from the Carta. Not all at once though, spread out, and the deliveries have been sent to various locations to make it seem less suspicious.”

Bull leaned forward to rest his elbow on the table. “You think the Vints are up to something as well?” 

“No, I think we're _meant_ to think that. One of our Carta contacts is tracking some of the shipments. They’re moving them _out_ of Tevinter again.”

“They’re using the tracers?” Dagna shifted excitedly on the bench. “How many shipments are they tracking? What’s the reach like? Are the signals all staying separated?”

“What do you know about those?” Leliana turned her head slowly, like a predator tracking its prey before it pounced.

Dagna stirred her stew with her spoon, clinking it against the edge of the bowl. Perhaps she should have thought this through a little further. “I… made them? It was sort of a... a side project.”

Leliana leaned back in her chair. “For the Carta? Why was I not aware of it?”

“Not for the Carta. A favor for a friend. She just happened to work for the Carta...”

Sera nudged her side with an elbow. “Look at you widdle! Past life of crime.”

Leliana frowned. “How many did you make for them?”

“Maybe forty? I’m not _exactly_ sure what they needed them for originally, but I trust my friend and it seems like the tracers are helping us now, so that’s a good thing, right?” Dagna’s voice climbed higher as she spoke.

“They may be helping, but I’m concerned about devices like that coming out of the Inquisition without my knowledge. And what else they could be used for, other than tracking lyrium.” 

Bull cleared his throat, shooting Dagna a sympathetic look. “Speaking of lyrium, if it’s not staying in Tevinter, where _is_ it going?” 

Leliana studied Dagna for a moment longer, giving the distinct impression this line of questioning wasn’t over, before pulling the tea strainer out of her cup by its chain and letting it drip before placing it on her saucer. “We don’t know yet. At a certain point, the tracers are all cutting out. We’ve lost every shipment on the outskirts of Minrathous.”

“If the tracers are cutting out, something is going wonky and breaking the signal. Maybe some kind of barrier or energy field? It’d have to be a pretty powerful one, but I suppose that’s possible.” Dagna’s mind flicked through possibilities as her fingers drummed against the table. Tap tap tap, tap tap tap. Her hand stilled. “The energy of an eluvian would do that.”

Leliana sat forward again. “Is there a way to continue tracking through an eluvian? If we can find where they’re taking the lyrium, we may find where Solas is.”  
  
“Or where he needs the lyrium at least.”

Leliana looked thoughtful. “You think he’s taking it somewhere other than his headquarters?”

“Whatever he’s planning with the Veil is going to need power. A _lot_ of power. After the Deep Roads went all... kablooie... last month, a huge stockpile of lyrium ended up underwater.”

“Seems a little convenient these hits on the trade are coming right after that. Might have been the Qunari that were mining it, but my money is on Solas having a plan for it,” Bull interjected.

“Right! It makes sense that he’s having to work to replace that. And that he’s moving it through eluvians. It might be to a place where the Veil is already thin, or where there’s some way to… to…” She gestured outward with her hands. “To amplify what he’s already doing. A way to strengthen the signal.” She dropped her hands. “But I don’t think there’s an easy way to track shipments through an eluvian. I can experiment, but it might take a while.”

Bull leaned in toward Leliana and pitched his voice low. “We got anyone on the inside that can help with this?” 

“We have agents in place, but reliable intel has proven difficult. Misinformation is distributed as readily as rations. It’s not likely that many of them, if any, know the full extent of his plans.”

Bull downed the rest of his drink in one swig, grimacing as he banged his mug back onto the table. “If you keep everything separate, no one can betray all your secrets.”

“He said that to me once,” Sera said. “About the Jennies. Kept on about it, too. Like he was trying to help. I just figured it was some shite he’d picked up with his head up the Fade’s arse all the time.” She wiped a bead of condensation off the side of her mug. “Seems different now.”

“He had us all fooled, Sera,” Bull said gently.

“Yeah, and you were a Ben-Harsehole! Seems like you should’ve known he was lying!”

Bull shook his head and didn’t rise to the bait. “Solas didn’t lie. Not really. He omitted things, which is different. When you’re lying to maintain your cover, there’s always a million things to remember - what town did you say you were from? Where were you living last year? What was the name of your boss? Where’d you learn your skills? There’s a million ways to slip up. Solas didn’t do any of that. He never gave answers that could be proven false. He sidestepped, he turned questions back to you, he gave vague answers. But... he was himself. Sometimes I think he was more himself than he’d ever admit. He just didn’t tell the whole truth.”

“Not telling the whole truth is _lying_,” Sera said and half-rose from the bench, bumping the table with her leg and sending the beer slopping out of the top of Krem’s mug.

Bull nodded and held his hand up to placate her. “Fair enough, Sera. Fair enough.”

She plopped back onto the bench as Krem grabbed a cloth and began wiping up the spill. “Has there been any word from her worship?” 

“She was supposed to check in at Southfording.” Leliana took a sip of her tea. “Even if she was traveling slowly, she should have been there days ago. I’ve sent a raven, but there’s been no response from the agent there yet.”

“So, did she not check in, or did we lose another agent?” Bull asked darkly.

“Too soon to say.”

Krem shook his head. “One of us should’ve gone with her.”

“What good are friends if they aren’t even there when you need them, yeah?” Sera slumped onto the table with her chin in her hand and Dagna rubbed her back in slow circles. 

“I’ll tap further into the network in the morning.” Leliana pushed back her chair and stood up. “See if we can get answers sooner. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

After Leliana took her leave, the sounds of the crackling fire and Maryden’s chords rose up from the lower level to fill the silence. Dagna mopped up the last of her stew with a crust of bread. Krem and Bull stared into their drinks. Sera chewed her thumb nail.

Bull’s cleared his throat. “You remember that time in Dirthamen’s temple?”

“Trying my best to forget it, thanks,” said Sera.

“Was that the one with the demon priest parts?” Krem grimaced.

Bull’s chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Yeah… that’s the one. It was one of the first times I realized what the boss was made of.” 

Dagna remembered the aftermath of that mission vaguely, something about accidentally unleashing one of Dirthamen’s priests after completing a ritual with body parts his followers had stored around the temple. A lovely tale from Thedas’s history.

Bull adjusted himself on his bench, settling into the story. “So there we were, ass deep in corpses rising from the ground, I’m fighting six of them with Cass, Sera’s shooting arrows as fast as she can, and they just keep coming. I cut one down and another is in its place before I can blink. Just corpse parts flying everywhere. And I look over, and there’s the boss, balancing on top of some crazy altar, holding up a jar of what turned out to be body parts, and ripping spells through a horror demon with her free hand. The demon goes pop, the corpses fall apart, and we’re all just standing there trying to figure out what the hell happened and how fast we can leave. Boss jumps down, looks around, tosses that jar to me like it’s nothing, and says, ‘We should get the rest of these.’”

He threw his head back and laughed. “We should get the rest of these.” 

Dagna couldn’t help joining in and Sera muttered curses under her breath, but her lips twisted up in a smile.

“Remember that time on the Storm Coast?” Krem asked, wiping his eye.

“The bear?” Iron Bull grinned.

“I thought you weren’t even up for that, chief.”

“Ohh no - he was up! Up in some scout,” Sera cackled.

“A lot better than being up in a tree,” Iron Bull shot back.

Sera tapped the side of her head. “Bears don’t climb trees, do they? Wait - do they?”

Krem shook his head. “I just remember coming out of the tent half asleep and there’s her worship - staring down this huge bear next to the fire.”

“What was she yelling again?”

“‘Go away!’ Just ‘go away!’ Friggin daft.” Sera dissolved into giggles. “Ballsy as shit.”

“Wait - is _that_ where the rumor came from that she fights bears? I heard it when I first got here, but you know, figured it had been embellished,” Dagna said.

Krem snickered. “Didn’t even need to fight it. Just yelled it down. And as it’s lumbering out of camp, she turns to these new recruits who are completely shitting themselves and says ‘and _that’s_ why you don’t leave fish out.’

A fresh round of laughter echoed around the table, and it mixed with the light of the lanterns, and the heat of the fire, and the feel of Sera’s hand on her leg, and the smiles of her friends, and the murmured conversations from downstairs. It mixed and solidified into a warmth in her chest and an ache in her cheeks and Dagna held onto all of it - all of what they were fighting for and all her hope that Nepenthe would come home safely and they would have new stories to tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be back to Abelas's POV next chapter! Sorry for the wait! Thanks as always for your comments - your reactions keep me writing - whether they're emojis, keyboard smashes, ramblings, questions, or quotes - I cherish them all (and all of you as well).
> 
> You can also [find me on Tumblr](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/), where I post all the Abelas content I can dig up.


	18. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on: Nepenthe had a nightmare about red lyrium, and then another dream that got confusingly sexy. Abelas and Nepenthe discussed magic and uthenera, fought a terror demon that pulled at some dark memories, and found a cave with red lyrium. Nepenthe suspects Abelas has seen it before.
> 
> Much love to my beta thelittlestfische and to [faerieavalon](http://archiveofourown.com/users/faerieavalon/pseuds/faerieavalon), and [humblepeasant](http://archiveofourown.com/users/HumblePeasant/pseuds/HumblePeasant) for their endless lore discussions. (If you like lore and elves, check out their brilliant works).
> 
> I also got [MORE ARTWORK](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/post/616689314025357312/the-draw-of-his-history-was-so-strong-it-became-a) cause I die for soft Abelas.

The red lyrium buzzed discordantly and flickered with an uneven pulse, casting strange shadows around the cavern. It felt like time had folded and he could have been a young man again - bravely staring down what would destroy them all, with the name of his god in his mouth and righteous certainty in his heart. 

Except, he was not that man anymore. The great name he had invoked before turned to ash on his tongue, and belief crumbled to doubt. 

He was tired. So very tired - tired of waiting, of watching, of performing a duty that had come to nothing. 

Was he even saving the world this time, or destroying it? 

He looked toward Nepenthe, the beginning of joy, or strife, as she studied the lyrium with a critical eye and a line between her brows. Dark shadows fell across her face and the light of the lyrium reflected in her eyes. It looked as if she carried some bright, fierce spark inside her - a righteousness he still could not deny. A fiery certainty in herself and her path. The shadows shifted and she could have been made of steel, a dark queen that legions would bow before as she shaped the world with her will. 

But then she turned to him and the illusion broke, and she was herself again. Soft curls falling across dark eyes, and the only reflection in them was his own sad face, his own struggles to find meaning in a world that increasingly made no sense.

“Elves had something to do with it, didn’t they?” She was angry, suspicious, and Abelas did not blame her for it. “What was it? What did you do?”

_We did not know_, he wanted to say. _We tried to fix it. _ The terror demon had already pulled at his memories of that time, twisting the smell of burning corpses on Andruil’s lands with the cries of the soldiers he’d sent into countless battles. They had called out to Mythal as they died in the Arbor Wilds, their lives staining the ground - while he, in shame, had walked away from his duty. _The sanctum was despoiled on your watch, Abelas_. 

He had tried to bear his guilt in solitude, lingering on in the Arbor Wilds, telling himself each day that this would be the day he did something differently. But he had remained - unable to make a decision until it was made for him. As he had always done, he thought bitterly.

But now…

But now, he could choose and hope it was the right thing to do.

“We need to talk,” he said, and turned to leave the cave.

She trailed after him, her footsteps uncertain and halting over the rough ground. A rock clattered as she tripped and she hissed between her teeth, catching herself on the cave wall. She took slow, shaky breaths, clenching her fingers against the rock. He turned back to offer his arm, though he was sure she’d wave it away and insist she was fine. Instead, after a deep inhale, she pushed off the wall and placed her hand on his forearm. 

“Can I help?” he asked. The pain on her face was obvious even in the dim light of the cave.

She shook her head. “Let's just get out. Then I can sit for a minute.”

He began moving again, slowly, keeping his arm steady. “What do you know about red lyrium?”

“I know that nothing good comes from it and it’s making me more than a little worried that you’ve seen it before. I assume that was in Elvhenan?” As he hummed his assent, she misstepped again. Her fingers tightened on his arm and she swore under her breath. 

He shifted his position, so that she was slightly in front of him, and placed his arm around her, holding onto her other elbow. It would be easier to support her like this. He probably could have picked her up and carried her, but the uneasy truce they’d arrived at kept him from taking such liberties again. 

“Where have you encountered it before?” he asked instead. 

She clicked her tongue. “It’s been appearing all over Thedas and seems to have spread more since the breach appeared. Corypheus used it, and corrupted templars used it, and apparently Andruil’s sentinels use it, too. Which I’ve been meaning to ask you about.”

He ignored the implied question for now. “Do you know what lyrium is? Where it comes from?” His own thoughts were stuck somewhere between the red lyrium behind them and the press of her body against his side.

“It’s the blood of titans. I was in one, in fact, when I learned that.” 

He glanced down at the top of her head in surprise. She had been _in_ a titan? Her duties as Inquisitor had taken her much farther than he would have expected. He tried, and failed, to imagine how that could have possibly happened. He would have to ask her about it some time. 

“Wait,” she said as they reached the mouth of the cave, stopping to look up at him. “Are you telling me the blight infected the blood of a titan _before_ the Veil?” Her expression shifted from confusion to alarm. “Is there a blighted titan?” 

“Not one that is living, no.”

She studied him and he let her, curious to see what she would ask next. She was so close he could smell the sweat and blood and smoke on her skin and could easily see the tear tracks on her face from before, from when she’d faced down the demon. He was not sure she’d even realized she’d been crying. What fear had already happened for her? Solas’s betrayal?_ You do not get to have him, _she’d said. Was there something still between them? 

“Abelas, wherever our loyalties lie, neither of us knows the whole truth. Maybe we can arrive at some answers together.” Her hand was still resting on his arm and she gave it a gentle squeeze, no doubt meaning to be reassuring, but instead it sent his pulse racing.

“I am unsure where to begin,” he admitted.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.” She turned to look over her shoulder, shifting toward a rock near the cave entrance. He helped her sit there and remove her pack then settled himself on a ledge opposite her. Their knees nearly touched in the narrow space. 

He deliberated for a moment before reaching into a side pocket of his pack and pulling out a bag of royal elfroot and a stone pipe carved out of stormheart, one of the few things he’d kept from his recent time in the Arbor Wilds. He packed the last pinch of the leaves into the shallow blue-green bowl, then snapped his fingers and used the flame flickering off the tips of his fingers to light it. She remained quiet, letting him gather his thoughts, and he found the effort strangely comforting.

He took a long drag on the pipe, watching the embers flare to life, and held his breath for a moment before blowing it out slowly. Through the smoke, he watched her stretch her leg in front of her, grimacing as she did so. He should try to look at her wound more closely, or make sure she did at least. From the glimpse he had this morning, it had looked suspiciously red. 

He held out the pipe towards her, and she took it from him wordlessly, their fingers brushing lightly as she did so.

Her gaze flicked from his hands to his face and Abelas wondered fleetingly if this was all an elaborate plan to test his loyalty. But, no, this was not Arlathan. There was no time to play such games. 

If there were, he would be failing spectacularly.

He shifted his back against the rock, getting more comfortable, and decided to start at the beginning. “Eons ago, the world was divided into three realms. The Fade, the waking world, and the Void.” He found it easier to continue if he pretended this was simply a kind of lesson, something he might have given to his students. “The Fade is the realm of creation - the place where ideas begin and thought is given form. The waking world is the continuation of those ideas - the place where they become real.”

“There was always that division? Even before the Veil?” She inhaled then blew the smoke upward and leaned forward to pass the pipe back to him. 

“Yes. Even then. But they were not as separate as they are now. There was flow between them. The Fade was what you call the sky and it was vast. No one knows how high it went.” He took another drag, letting the smoke fill his mouth before he exhaled.

“And the Void?” 

“The Void is a place of darkness that few have ever seen. For ages, it was unknown, buried deep beneath the ground. But that changed after the war against the titans.”

Her hand dropped to her knee and her mouth fell open slightly, but she said nothing and he continued.

“Even when I was young, this history was thousands of years old,” he explained. “That war was how the Evanuris rose to power.”

“Generals became respected elders, then kings, and finally gods,” she murmured quietly.

“You know the stories?” He frowned, unsure how much Fen’Harel had already told her.

“No. Only pieces.” She shook her head. “Please, continue.”

“In the fight with the titans, one was killed under Arlathan, which effectively ended the war. As the body was explored, the titan’s heart was eventually found, and used to make the _na'sou'durgen_, the orbs of the Evanuris.”

Her eyes widened slightly at that and her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “A titan’s heart. And the orbs have something to do with the blight?”

“Only in their origin.” He tipped his head, considering. “Perhaps. Some think that taking the heart created the blight. And then, when Andruil grew tired of hunting on the surface and pursued other prey into the dark places of the world, she pushed so deep that she found the Void, and the blight. And the red lyrium that had been slowly spreading for centuries.”

He let his head fall back against the rock. “She harnessed the power. And it was the catalyst for our end.” His hand tightened around the pipe, which had extinguished itself while they were talking. With a flick, he conjured another flame, and relit the elfroot, searching for comfort in an old habit. It had all happened so long ago, but he did not know how to forget.

“I’m... sorry,” she said and her voice was soft, like her expression. She lifted her hand slightly, stretching towards him, almost as if she was going to touch his knee. But just before she did, she changed the gesture, wrapping her arm around herself instead. There was something so vulnerable about the motion that he wanted to... He did not know what he wanted to do. Hold her. Whisper his secrets into her hair. Tell her it would be okay. But he did not want to lie to her.

“How did you stop it? Were you in Mythal’s service then?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“I was. And I was there as we fought back the _banallen_ and collapsed the tunnels with magic and rock. Afterward… a lot happened in a short time. Short for Elvhenan, a lifetime for you,” he amended. The time had been turbulent, the aftermath of another war and the tipping point for the tensions between the Evanuris. Too much to discuss now. 

He passed her the pipe and closed his eyes, listening to her inhale and to the muted sounds of melting snow dropping onto wet ground. Breathing in the scents of decaying leaves, and fresh snow, and the sweet pine scent of the elfroot smoke.

He was tired. The night had not been restful. He’d been awake for hours, just listening to her breathe. Then she had begun to twist and turn, making quiet sounds of pain. He’d talked to her softly, and when that did not work, he’d placed a hand on her shoulder. He’d meant to simply shake her awake, but she’d stilled, then pressed herself back against him, sighing gently. For a long time, he’d stayed like that, with his hand on her shoulder in the quiet of the night. When he’d finally slept, he’d made sure the walls around his dreaming mind were firmly in place to avoid any accidental encounters with Fen’Harel. He would need to invent an excuse for his silence. 

“But it got out somehow.” Her voice pulled him back and he opened his eyes. “The blight. And the red lyrium.” 

“It would seem so,” he said. “Though I am not sure how. It must have been after the i’ve’an’aria was in place. I had hoped you might be able to share information about that.”

She inhaled deeply and raised her shoulders. “All I really have are rumors from a human religion. It’s said that the ancient magisters of Tevinter entered the Fade physically and made their way to the Golden City. Only it was black and dead and their gods were not there. When they returned to the waking world, they brought the blight with them.” She scrunched her face and moved her lips silently as she counted something on her fingers. “That must have been… at least 1,400 years ago, if the stories are correct.”

“Are these the same people who worshipped the dragons?” 

“Yes. Specific dragons, though - not all dragons. Just the ones that are buried. The ones you already know about.” She squinted at him. “How _do_ you know about the dragons but nothing else?”

He had told her before that it would not be her problem to solve, but he was not so sure now. This might prove to be a problem bigger than any of them. “I know about the Evanuris’ dragons because they were entombed before the i’ve’an’aria. Put to sleep with magic, to create a seal on the Void and the blight. It was an imperfect solution that led to even greater tensions among the rest of the Evanuris and Mythal.”

The frown on her face slowly deepened as her eyes flicked back and forth across his face. “The dragons belonged to the Evanuris?” she asked slowly.

“They were bonded. A piece of the Evanuris’s souls resided within the great dragons.”

“They..._what?_ Fenedhis, Abelas. This goes against everything people have believed for centuries.” She scoffed, then began to chuckle. “Tevinter would lose their _minds_ if they knew their former gods were actually Elven ones... Though, they try to pin the blights on the Old Gods rather than the magisters, so I suppose in the end, it would just be another thing they could use to malign elves.” 

She rubbed her finger along the center of her forehead and scrunched her eyes shut for a moment. “This is a lot, Abelas. Until recently, _no one_ even knew for sure that titans existed, or anything about the origins of the blight, or who the creators truly were. You’ve upended the major religions and known history of three of Thedas’s races in five minutes." She hung her head and muttered something that sounded like a string of curses in several languages. "I don’t even know what to do with all this.” 

“Admittedly, our history is long and complex, even for us. Much of this information was not widely known in Elvhenan either.”

“Can I have that again?” She gestured toward the pipe and he held it out to her, then lit it as she inhaled. She stretched back and brought one foot up to the rock she sat on, collecting her throughs before pressing on. He could see why she’d been an effective leader. “So these dragons are holding back… something. The blight, red lyrium. What does it mean that five are gone?”

“It means that the lid is loosening. And if red lyrium spread with the appearance of the breach…” 

“Then dropping the Veil, could take the lid right off?” Her expression was solemn and bleak.

He did not answer, looking down at his hands in his lap.

“Abelas, I still want to save this world. And I suspect that in your heart, you do not want your legacy to be one of genocide and destruction. Power is power, but information is also power. Maybe I won’t succeed. Maybe I can't stop Fen’Harel. But I won’t just sit back and do nothing and wait for him to act.” The muscles in her jaw tensed and her nostrils flared as she shook her head sharply. “Once I get back to Skyhold, there are good people, _smart_ people, who know more about this than I do and maybe together we can find a way to just…” She paused and swallowed. When she continued her voice was tight. “...just survive whatever is coming. You could help us. Help me. You’re a good man. You deserve a chance to live again as well.”

Her words struck at something in him, though he wished they didn’t. A different kind of hope. “I have lived solely on my duty for millenia. My only purpose is to fight for a world that no longer exists. How would I even begin a new life here?”

She pressed her lips together, hard. They turned into a thin white line on her face and she looked down, not letting him see her eyes. She cleared her throat and said thickly, “I’ll get some good wine. Find some potatoes. Bake them up and see if I make them as good as you remember. Maybe we can start there.”

Something twisted in his chest and he knew she was reaching out to him, reaching in a way that seemed to be part of who she was, as if she could not help herself even though it hurt. “Bake them?” he said lightly. “No, molain. You have to fry them.”

She huffed quietly, then looked at him in mock horror, her eyes shining wetly. “Sacrilege. Baked is definitely the best way - all soft and fluffy inside, like a perfect pillow for the butter.”

He shook his head, his chest tight with some undefinable emotion. “I am afraid we may find ourselves on the opposite sides of an ideological debate again. But perhaps this one can be resolved in the kitchen.” He did not know which kitchen he spoke of, or when they would possibly get a chance to trade potato recipes, but he liked the thought. It was easier to think of cooking pans and warm fires and slow smiles than of duty and ideologies and cold solitude.

She met his eyes. “Thank you, Abelas. For giving me some answers.” She went to run her hand through her hair and he reached out to stop her, resting his fingers against her forearm. She glanced at him with wide eyes.

“You have, ah..” He gestured toward her head. “Viscera. In your hair.

She gave a small, wry smile and dropped her hand. “You do, too.”

He started to feel for it, but stopped himself halfway and sighed. “You know what I miss, molain? _Reast’man'an_.”

“Is that another food?”

He hummed. “No. It was a place to bathe. There were tiled pools and indoor waterfalls and all of it was perpetually heated by magic.” His words did not do the place justice and he would have given just about anything to be able to sink beneath the water again, wash away all the grief and regret.

“Right now, I’d settle for a clean puddle.” She scratched absently at something dried on her breast plate. “Though, that sounds lovely.” 

“Perhaps I can show it to you sometime.” His pulse raced as soon as he’d said it and her chin jerked up.

“I -” He started, then closed his mouth, unsure of what he’d meant to say. Had he truly just asked her on some kind of date to his memories of a bath house? It had been a while since he’d played this game, but surely he had never been so terrible at it before. He decided to blame the elfroot.

“Okay,” she said, and it was several breaths before he realized she was accepting the offer. 

_Fenedhis_. He was going to get himself killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Na'sou'durgen = lit. soul power of the mountain (i.e. the Evanuri’s orbs)  
I’ve’an’aria = the Veil  
Reast’man'an = lit. clean water place  
Banallen = the first darkspawn
> 
> HOOOO! LORE DUMP! Hope that was understandable as I tried to cover a lot of things that had been hinted at in a very talky chapter... I hope I developed things in a way that makes sense within canon lore, but I’m interpreting a lot to fit the story.
> 
> Abelas probably has his own elven ways of thinking about the titans, but for simplicity, I just had him use the terms Nepenthe would be familiar with. 
> 
> Also, potatoes are becoming a thing.


	19. Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter recap: Nepenthe and Abelas discussed red lyrium and the origins of the blight, as well as the old god dragons acting as seals on the Void. There was potato banter, and Abelas offered to show Nepenthe an Elvhen bathhouse.

Nepenthe trailed quietly behind him, occasionally stopping to scan the forest and direct a healing spell into her leg when she thought he wasn’t looking. Abelas sucked his teeth. They couldn’t continue like this. She needed to rest. 

And he needed to make a decision. 

_ You could help us. Help me. You’re a good man. You deserve a chance to live again. _Words that pierced him like a needle threaded with hope.

But he wasn’t sure what he deserved, when he had survived and so many others had not, and he remembered Fen’Harel’s words as well. _ Abelas, I am glad for your loyalty. _

Once again, he was waiting for a decision to be made for him, assuming that there was some will greater than his own that would direct his path. Staying, because he didn’t know how to choose. Because having a choice at all was so new.

He pushed a branch out of his way, and held it back for her to pass by. The landscape had changed again - swamps and melting snow had given way to damp leaves and tall oaks and shaggy patches of underbrush that sometimes grew so dense they had to skirt around them. Ahead, the trees finally thinned and beyond was an open meadow filled with long, sandy grasses rippling in the cold evening breeze. In the distance, he could see hills patterned with crop fields, and rising above them were jagged, ice covered peaks, glowing violet in the last light of the day. The ridge of the _eireth_ _av’inga_ \- the teeth of the world ripping at the sky. He had heard of them before, but only seen them in dreams.

“Those are halla prints.” Nepenthe stopped in front of him and pointed towards a set of split hoof marks pressed into the soft mud between tree roots.

“Too small for halla. Maybe deer?” Abelas replied quickly, and he realized his mistake as soon as she turned to him, a look of exasperation on her face.

“Abelas. I know what halla prints look like.”

His breath clouded in the air as he exhaled sharply and inclined his head. “Of course. My apologies. I had forgotten they are smaller now.” He crouched down to look more closely at one of the prints. Once, it would have been as large as his whole hand, but now he could have covered it with just his palm. Another change. Another part of his world slipping away.

“I had heard stories about Elvhen knights riding halla into battle. It makes sense that they used to be bigger,” she mused quietly. “I mean, you _ can _ ride them, but it was kind of hard to imagine a halla as a noble war mount when their riders’ feet would be practically dragging on the ground. Not exactly the kind of thing to strike fear into the hearts of your enemies.”

He looked out over the meadow, watching as dark birds swooped low in looping patterns and called their evening songs, and tried to imagine how that would have looked.

“Were elves all bigger then, too? Or just Sentinels?” Her gaze traveled up across his chest. “Taller, I mean.”

It was an echo of the whispers he’d heard around Fen’Harel’s base. _ Do you think he’s bigger all over? _But he found he was not annoyed by the speculation if it came from her. Rather the opposite.

He raised his eyebrows. “There was a height requirement for the position,” he said seriously. “For aesthetics.”

“Oh, for… Really? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. But it seems a bit limiting. What was the cut off?”

He couldn’t quite keep the corner of his mouth from twitching and she caught on instantly, rolling her eyes and pushing his chest lightly. “It’s not fair when your joking face and your serious face look the same!” 

She tilted her chin to look up at him, smirking, and the quirk of his own lips stretched into a smile before he could stop it, the pressure of her touch still lingering on his chest. 

“And what about your scared face, friend?”

The question came from behind, in a rich, lilting accent, and the warmth melted away instantly as he turned around. Several paces away were two elves dressed in leather armor and blue wool cloaks. They were similar in appearance, though one was slimmer and a head taller than the other, but both had dark hair, light eyes, and Andruil’s vallaslin. Which seemed appropriate, as their bows were drawn and aimed at his chest.

“I don’t know, Iovro,” the taller elf said. “He don’t look very scared. Neither of ‘em do. Even with Clan Rasadahlen’s _ second _ best hunter staring ‘em down.” 

Whether Iovro was a nickname or given name, it seemed to suit the stocky elf who did, in fact, look vaguely ursine as he glowered at his companion. “Falon’Din take your tongue, Fallani. Let me talk,” he growled, but it lacked any real malice.

Nepenthe put her hand on Abelas’s arm as he started to cast.

“_An'eth'ara _,” she said. “We mean you no harm. We’re just passing through.”

“Passing through?” Iovro’s brow furrowed. “Where in the Void are you passing through _ from_?” 

“We went into the Wilds. On a dare. Got lost,” Nepenthe said, tugging Abelas’s arm back down by his side. The message was clear enough - she didn’t see them as a threat.

The elf called Fallani glanced toward Iovro, though his aim remained steady. “They were probably trying to find _ her_.” 

“Andruil’s tits, you’re as thick as halla shite and only half as useful. I know that. I was trying to see what they would tell me.”

“Oh, _ clearly _ I have much to learn from the master of interrogation.” Fallani’s tone dripped with sarcasm and Abelas got the sense he’d rolled his eyes even though the man hadn’t moved a muscle. 

“I’m not saying that we _ were _ trying to find her,” Nepenthe interrupted, “but _ if _ we were, we didn’t succeed.”

Her face was guileless, but he thought he could detect some glint in her gaze. A shrewdness that indicated she was bluffing, waiting to see what information they would reveal if she played along.

“Nor will you,” Fallani said in a disinterested tone. “Asha'bellanar hasn’t been in these woods for years.”

Asha'bellanar. The name pulled at his memory then slammed into his mind with the force of a blow when he remembered.

It was the name Nepenthe had used for the witch who hosted Mythal’s spirit. 

Mythal had been here. 

_ Here _. 

Here in these festering woods. Here, where the Dalish had known her well enough to be in contact with her. Here. While he had been left in ignorance, forgotten, protecting a rotting temple with her other Sentinels. 

And she had not come to them. They had defended the vir'abelassan, and fought, and died, and kept faith as best they could. 

And she had not come.

He felt lightheaded and his heart was like a weight in his hollow chest. Why had she abandoned them? Had he fallen so far from grace? His whole body stiffened and his hands trembled as bitter anger surged through him. _ Halam’shivanas _ his mind whispered, but it was a cold, brittle thought. 

Nepenthe’s fingers tightened on his forearm. He could not bring himself to look at her to see if it was meant to be reassuring or a warning to keep himself in check. If it was the latter, she needn’t have worried. He was not so rash as to seek vengeance without reason and killing these elves would serve no purpose. 

“Thanks for the tip. We won’t disturb you further then.” Nepenthe pulled on his arm, turning to leave.

Iorvo released the tension in his bow and lowered it, though his scowl remained firmly in place. “Seems like you managed to find some kind of trouble all the same.” He gestured toward Nepenthe's leg. Abelas glanced down to see a bloom of fresh blood seeping through the yellowed bandage and his anger twisted into apprehension. _ Fenedhis_. It had opened again. When? She’d rebandaged it and reapplied salve after the cave. But that had been hours ago. He bit the inside of his lip. She needed rest. 

“Bandits?” asked Fallani.

Nepenthe nodded, playing along.

“Aye, they been active in these parts lately,” Iovro sighed. “Well… seeing as you didn’t find what you weren't looking for… you’d be safer with us if you wanted to stay the night.”

“He means we’ll be celebrating Tuasha’math’man and he’s in desperate need of someone new to cheat at cards.” Fallani put his arrow back into his quiver and leaned against a tree. Apparently the two elves had decided they weren’t a danger.

“Still sulking about that, you cunt?” Iovro said gruffly. “I beat you fair. Not my fault if you get too deep in your cups to keep your coin.” He turned back to them, addressing Nepenthe. “Don’t know if city elves celebrate, but if you and your silent Dalish friend trade us some good tales, and maybe a round of cards, we’ll keep you fed.” 

She froze by his side, and it took him a moment to realize that they’d mistaken him for Dalish, and had assumed she was not since she no longer had her vallaslin.

“I’m familiar with Dalish customs,” she said stiffly, and shame burned bright on her cheeks. “And we thank you for the offer, but we must be on our way.” 

“We got a healer that can look at that,” Fallani cut in.

Nepenthe tugged on Abelas’s arm again, but he stopped her.

“Molain, if they have a healer, they may be able to do more for your leg.” He spoke quietly, for her ears only. 

She frowned.

“You should rest.” Part of him knew that if he was looking for a solution to his dilemma, this was it. She would be with her people, cared for, and he could... He could return to his own duties. It would be the safest choice. 

_ You’re a good man. You deserve a chance to live as well. _

She glared at him, but she looked more worried than angry and he wondered if she understood the track his thoughts had taken. “I… We shouldn’t impose. I’ll be fine.”

“Why do you not want to go? They have offered. Do you not think them trustworthy?”

She didn’t answer and after a long moment, she turned to the other elves. “We’ve reconsidered. Thanks for the invitation.” 

“Good!” Iovro boomed. “I hope you know how to play Harellan.” 

“And if you don’t, I wouldn’t learn it from him.” Fallani walked past Iovro and elbowed him good naturedly in the ribs, then beckoned with his head for them to follow. 

Nepenthe started to walk after them, deeper into the woods, but he looked over his shoulder toward the meadow. He could leave now. He should leave now. Regardless of his disappointments and questions, the world was still imbalanced. And Fen’Harel was the only one who could mend it. And if there were worrying complications, perhaps he could be persuaded to consider them further.

She turned back when she realized he was not behind her and for a moment they just stood there, gray eyes meeting gold.

_ Do you think there’s a reason we’re both here? Of all the places and times we could have met? _

She frowned, questioning, and a series of quick expressions flicked over her face. For several silent breaths they watched each other, and then slowly, her shoulders dropped. It was that small action that made him move, making his way to her. The first few steps were like walking through water, the current of everything he had been before dragging around his legs, trying to pull him back. But it got easier, and by the time he reached her, he felt like he had emerged cleansed, lighter, if only for a moment. It is just for now, he told himself. Just until she is safe.

Before she turned away to follow their guides, he thought he saw her smile.

While the Dalish elves continued to argue over the correct rules of their game, they took a meandering route through the trees, but within a few minutes, signs of the encampment emerged. In the slanting light of dusk, a path materialized in the underbrush and he could see glints of magelights through the trees.

Nepenthe slowed down ahead of him. “Pretend to help me,” she whispered. She limped alongside him and put her hand on his arm again. 

“Abelas,” she said quietly, “don’t tell anyone I was the Inquisitor.”

“Will they not recognize you?”

She gave a humorless laugh. “Doubtful. It’s more likely someone might think I had a passing resemblance to an elf they once saw at Arlathven. But that would have been years ago. And she would have worn the vallaslin of Sylaise.”

She fell silent and looked at the ground as they approached two wooden statues of the Dread Wolf flanking the path. Carved from tree trunks and taller even than him, their heads were thrown back, howling at the sky. The angle of the sun cast one of the statue’s shadows across the path, and the irony of literally being in Fen’Harel’s shadow so soon after he’d chosen to stay with his former lover was not lost on him.

“If anyone asks about you,” she continued once they were past the statues, “say you come from a remote area of the Arbor Wilds. It’s sort of the truth and the area is basically uncharted. Being so removed would explain any unfamiliarity you have with our traditional customs.”

He frowned, trying to figure out what he might be expected to know and what would happen if it became apparent he was not Dalish. He wondered if Fen’Harel had agents in this particular clan.

“Or you can just look at them like that and I’m sure they’ll drop it.”

He cut his eyes toward her and she glanced away, feigning innocence.

He could see a clearing ahead. Strings of golden magelights hung from branches, and flickered around the bases of trees in clusters resembling glowing reeds. Between the shadowy bulk of the aravels, figures moved around low tables setting down bowls and spreading colorful blankets on the ground. 

Before they exited the trees, Iovro pointed them to the side of the path towards a large cart. “Stay here a tic. Got to check in with our Keeper, then we’ll get you settled.” Iovro walked off, leaving Fallani to wait with them. 

The tall elf ambled over to the cart and leaned against it, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his leathers. “So, when you’re not lost in a swamp, where do you come from, friends?”

“Oh, I’ve been all over.” Nepenthe said and limped her way over to join the archer against the cart. “But I’ve never seen arrows fletched quite like yours. What do you use?” She leaned over and brushed her finger along the end of an arrow in Fallani’s quiver.

He laughed and launched into a loud, detailed explanation, clearly pleased to have an opportunity to talk about himself. She’d used a clever diversion to keep him from asking more questions. Or it was an attempt at flirting and she was genuinely interested. 

As was her right. 

With an effort that was harder than he wanted to admit, Abelas turned his back on them to look over the camp. Twelve aravels, some much larger than others, were arranged in a semicircle around a clearing with a large fire in the middle of it. A network of ropes and poles held up colorful canopies of woven cloth and at the center was a hole so the smoke could escape. He could hear instructions being called out to bring another barrel of ale, children shrieking as they ducked behind trees, the crackle of the fire, laughter - the simple sounds of domestic life.

A touch on his leg startled him and he glanced down. A small, pudgy hand was rubbing over the gilded plate covering his thigh.

A child looked up at him, large eyes blinking through tangled curls, with cheeks still round and soft with baby fat. Abelas tried to guess how old the child might be. Fifteen? Twenty? No, that couldn’t be right. She was thirty-two, this one must be much younger.

“I like yours shiny armor. It’s really shiny. I have a shiny coin. My dad gave it me.”

The words came out in a rush, and Abelas struggled to understand the pronunciation.

“My dad is big,” the boy continued undeterred. “He’s a hunter. Are you a hunter?”

Abelas crouched down so he could be eye level with the tiny elf and cleared his throat. It had been ages untold since he’d seen a child as young as this. He looked into the boy’s wide, hopeful eyes. “No. I am the last of the Elvhen, a high priest of Mythal, bound to serve the All-Mother and preserve the immortal memories of my people.”

“Oh.” The small voice sounded vaguely disappointed. Apparently being a hunter would have been more impressive.

“Or… I was…” Abelas murmured, more to himself than the child. “I am not sure anymore.”

“Maybe you can be a hunter.” The child patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Mithin! Your mamae’s looking for you.” Iovro entered the woods again and pointed the child in the direction of the aravels. As Abelas stood, the boy tottled off, using one hand to hold up his too-long trousers that were covered in a patchwork of different fabrics and colorful stitches. Trousers marked by the wear of many children and mended by the work of many hands. 

Iovro led them along the edge of the camp. “We haven’t got any free berths at the moment. Our clan has grown since the split in the sky was healed. Been lucky to have a lot of new bondings and a lot of new little ones join us. Nothing like the world not ending to make people feel alive.” He turned over his shoulder and winked at them. 

A shower of sparks caught Abelas’s attention and he looked over to see three very young children giggling as they sent small swirls of magic toward a pot on the ground. There was something familiar in the frequency of their magic and he slowed down to watch. Behind the children, several women were mixing food in large wooden bowls, and at the signs of the spells they stopped and interrupted the children, pulling them up onto their hips and admonishing them with quiet words. 

Nepenthe stopped. “All of them are mage born?” she asked.

Iovro’s face shuttered into distrust and he glanced between the children and Nepenthe, subtly moving his body between them, as if she were a threat.

“I know the dangers of being a mage.” She held out her arm toward Iovro and pushed up her sleeve, letting a subtle flicker of Fade energy run along the magic scarred end of her arm. Not a warning, a demonstration. She glanced at Abelas. “We both do. We won’t say anything.” 

It was directed at Iovro as much as at him. Don’t mention the mage children. Why, he wondered.

“They’ve all been born since the breach?” she asked.

Iovro nodded slowly. “Never had so many before. Don’t know what we’re going to do when they come of age. Hope there’s other clans that need mages I suppose. Though if the rumors are true, we’re not the only clan with the issue.” He shook his head as he continued on, and Abelas wondered what he’d meant by it all.

Iovro led them to an aravel at the end of the semi circle that was slightly smaller than the others. When they reached it, Iovro walked around the back and up the two steps to the door. He pushed it open, but it was too dark to make out much of the interior. “Best we can offer for accomodations currently, but a step up from a tarp. River’s over that way if you want to freshen up.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “And our healer can see you once you're clean. Keeper Radavur will want to meet you, too.” He slapped his hand against the side of the aravel, a quick double tap. “You can leave your things here. No one’ll bother them. Find me for a drink when you’re in better shape.” He clapped Abelas on the arm as he lumbered off, and they were alone again.

She went up the steps first and stood in the doorway, conjuring a small light and directing it to the ceiling which was only a few inches above her head. He stooped to look past her into the space. It smelled of leather and old wood - an earthy scent, not unpleasant. A narrow aisle of bare boards was flanked by floor-to-ceiling shelves along the walls. It seemed to be used for kitchen storage primarily - pots and pans were nestled into wooden boxes, ceramic jars were carefully arranged in rows and secured with straps. Netting was rolled on the top of the shelves - probably something that could be used to further secure their belongings when the aravel was in motion. It looked like there was space at the front for sleeping.

As a whole, it was preferable to a cave, but he thought a little wistfully of his bed - the one from before, with its clean sheets and comfortable mattress.

He wondered if he would ever get to sleep in a real bed again.

He was going to ask how much of this was similar to her clan when she turned to him. “I am taking a bath, and then I am getting a drink.”

Without waiting for his response, she limped back down the steps and began to walk through the trees in the direction Iovro had indicated. After a few paces, she turned back to him. “You coming? It's no tiled bath, but water is water.”

“Except when it is ice,” he muttered.

She snorted. “It’s not _ that _ cold yet.”

They reached the river quickly, just as the sun was setting through the trees. She placed her pack on the ground and began to remove her armor, tugging at straps that had obviously been adjusted so that she could manage one handed. 

He began to do the same, keeping his eyes focused on his own efforts as the soft rustle and clank of layers being shed continued. Unbidden, he remembered the way he had sensed her body when he healed her after the assassins attacked. The way his magic had flowed into empty spaces. The way hers had crept into him at the temple. It tugged at another idea. 

“Does the i’ve’an’aria still sound the same to you?” he asked as he placed his epaulet on a rock.

She paused and looked at him over her shoulder. “Does the Veil _ sound _ the same? The Veil makes a sound to you?”

“Do you not hear it?”

She shook her head, frowning. “No. I don’t think so. What does it sound like?” She was stripped down to her undershirt now, her arms bare as she began tugging at the belt around her waist..

“I am not sure how to explain it. Like a hum in the background. Most of the time I do not notice it anymore. But now… I wonder if the pitch has changed since the breach. I cannot remember the exact sound from before to compare it.”

She tipped her head, listening intently, and he did the same. The sounds of the waking world were most noticeable - the bubbling rush of the river, the faint sounds from the camp, the wind in the trees, but under it all, the faint, low vibration of the i’ve’an’aria. 

“I can’t hear anything.”

He pursed his lips, thinking. “The sound may be so familiar, you filter it out. Or possibly... it is only knowing what the world sounds like without it that allows me to notice it.”

She sat on a rock and began to unwrap the bandage around her thigh. “Why are you bringing this up now?” 

“The mage children. You seemed surprised and mentioned they had all been born since the breach.”

“Yes. It wouldn’t be typical for a clan to have so many born with magic.” She chewed at her nail. “I wonder why I had not heard of it before. But the clans must be keeping it as quiet as possible to avoid having their children enter the Circles.”

“Enter what?”

“The Circles,” she said quietly. “It’s where mages are sent to… to train them, in theory, but in practice it was controlling them, sometimes in truly horrible conditions. The Dalish are outside of the Circles for the most part. We’re technically allowed to have two mages, though for some large clans exceptions are made, and many clans make their own exceptions. City elves aren’t so lucky.”

“Who controls the mages at these circles?” He could hear the tightness in his own voice.

“Templars and the Chantry. Yes, the shem religion,” she continued quickly before he could speak. “And you don’t have to tell me it’s a broken system. I know. Reform needs to happen. And it is, though not as quickly as I’d like. We’ve managed to improve conditions and oversight and get the age of entry pushed back to twelve when it used to be as young as six. But much more needs to be done. I’d had higher hopes for the new Divine.”

She winced as she pulled the fabric away from the wound in her thigh and he dropped the last of his chainmail on the pile of his armor then moved closer to inspect it. 

It was raw along the seam with what looked like small veins of red radiating through the purpling bruise surrounding it. In the fading light, it was hard to tell. If it was infected, she’d need treatment beyond magic - something that worked with her body’s natural defenses. He wished he’d brought a stock of potions with him, but he’d never intended to be away more than a day or two.

“Healer, molain.”

She nodded absently. “But you think the breach changed the Veil somehow? Allowed magic from the Fade to come back into the waking world and that’s why more children are being born with magic?”

“It could have. A sudden influx. Or possibly the repair changed it slightly. It is energy, but beyond what I am familiar with.”

“So it’s like the door barrier at the temple, but huge?” 

“And much more complicated.” He liked how quickly she made the connections, liked her curiosity, and wished he could have debated the energy of the Veil without worrying that she would somehow use the knowledge to her own ends. If the Veil was already changing, he wondered if that would affect Fen’Harel’s plans. But if children were being born with magic, perhaps not everything would be lost.

He pulled his underlayer over his head and shivered as the cold air hit his chest. Bathing was not going to be particularly pleasant but it would feel good to be finally clean. The shirt joined the pile of his other things and when he looked up, she was watching him, her fingers paused on the clasp of her leathers.

“I will let you bathe,” he said, and turned away to grab his pack and head downstream. He wasn’t sure what her customs were regarding bathing, or if his presence would make her uncomfortable, and he’d rather give her privacy than make her ask for it.

When he got around a bend in the river, he realized he’d forgotten to ask for soap. 

He stripped completely, and washed as quickly as he could in the frigid water, scrubbing numb fingers over shivering skin. Pointless to try to warm the water when it was moving this quickly, but he did use a spell to warm himself once he’d gotten out. He debated putting on the underlayer of his armor again, but it would probably raise questions if he wore his full armor all night. Since he couldn’t retrieve his armor until she was done, he slipped into the worn sweater and wool trousers again, the only clothes he had. 

While he was waiting for her to finish, he silently skirted the camp and set wards just in case the Sentinels were still tracking them, though he hadn’t seen signs of it. Night was truly closing in as he approached the spot where he’d left her and he hoped he’d given her enough time. He drew near and spotted the pile of his armor on the bank, but hers was gone. Before he headed back to camp, he cleaned the worst of the demon viscera off his armor.

She was not at the aravel either so he left his equipment on a shelf by the door and sat on the step to braid his hair, watching the camp preparations for Tuasha’math’man. It must be some kind of harvest celebration. They hadn’t needed to have such things in Elvhenan - food had been grown in great domes of magic, hanging gardens of fruit and vegetables that were perpetually ripening.

He was just finishing tying off his braid when he saw her approaching from across the camp, silhouetted against the central fire. 

“It suits you,” she said when she got closer. “This look.” 

Her own clothes were clean and uncomplicated - a pair of slim leather trousers and a gray wool tunic with one sleeve rolled up. 

“As does yours.”

The curls of her hair were softer, clean and dry and swept to the side of her face. He wondered what it would look like braided, as had always been the fashion in Elvhenan. Then decided it suited her like this, and he could have spent many more minutes studying the way the edges of the firelight blurred into soft highlights and wondering what it would feel like to run his hand through her hair. The way he might have done in another age.

“Dinner is going to start soon, and the Keeper wants to meet us, but I thought we could have a drink first.” She held up two cups that she had held between her fingers and he took one from her, their fingers brushing too fleetingly as he did so. 

He looked into the cup, which was filled with a dark liquid that smelled slightly bitter.

“It’s ale,” she explained, settling herself next to him on the narrow step. So narrow their knees touched. “Have you had it before?”

He shook his head, then held up his cup to toast. “_Ladarathe_.”

She looked at his raised cup blankly. “What does that mean?”

“Essentially it means ‘to your health.’ You are supposed to tap your cup to mine and say it back. And then we drink.”

“Why?”

“Ah. I take it that custom has not remained. It was considered… friendly.”

“Oh.” She smiled slightly. “Well, _ ladarathe _ then.” She tapped her cup to his carefully and they both drank. 

She wiped her lip with the back of her wrist and then smiled at him, slow and easy. He returned it without thinking, and for a moment the outside world fell away and there was just this.

And gods, it felt good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iovro = bear  
An'eth'ara = Greetings (lit. My place is safe)  
Halam'sivanas = the sweet sacrifice of duty  
Tuasha’math’man = Harvest celebration (lit. Ripe Food Time)  
Harellan: The name of a Dalish card game. It means trickster or traitor.
> 
> My brain: This should be interesting - Abelas coming face-to-face with the culture he derided.  
Me: OH HO HO! Bath time and elves in sweaters!  
My brain: -_- mother fu....
> 
> Chapter was originally going to come in very long, so I split it into two, which is why it feels a little bit unfinished. we actually *will* see more of the Dalish and the celebration next chapter!  
Thanks as always for reading and for your comments! ❤️


	20. Precipice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter recap: Nepenthe and Abelas ran into a Dalish clan, Abelas discovered Mythal/Flemeth had been in the Korcari Wilds for years and decided to stay with Nepenthe for now, more elf children are being born as mages, everyone finally got a bath, and we ended with sweaters and ale.

On the way to meet the Keeper, Nepenthe was walking easier and some of the drawn tightness in her face was gone. When Abelas asked her about it, she confirmed she’d already seen the healer, who sold her enough tonic for a few days and some extra salves before rebandaging her wound. 

As they walked, Abelas looked around the camp. The light from the central fire and the strings of magelights between tent poles illuminated the area with a soft glow and the entire set up seemed to be designed for ease of transport and economy of space. There was no furniture save for a few work surfaces and the four long, low tables, and even those could probably be disassembled. Instead of chairs, there were rugs and padded cushions of leather and cloth at the tables and a few simple benches by the fire. 

The kitchen was set into the side of a large aravel. The whole wall of the structure folded down in sections to create a series of countertops and behind them were rows of shelving holding utensils, pans, and jars of what looked like spices. Women and men and even children were gathered around, chopping and talking and ferrying dishes to the tables.

Everything compact. Portable. Transient. No buildings. No grand architecture. Nothing that would remain when they had moved on - in all senses of the word. His own history might be crumbling into ruins, but at least there was still _something_ to hold on to, something that showed they had existed. His chest grew tight thinking of what they had lost.

The Keeper himself, Radavur, a wiry man in his later years, was pleasant enough in his welcome. They sat down opposite him on the benches by the large central fire, where he insisted on having a drink. As he poured more of the bitter ale into three wooden cups, Nepenthe introduced them with their true names, which surprised Abelas. But even then the man did not recognize her as the Inquisitor and merely extended a formal invitation to join the clan for Tuasha’math’man. Nepenthe made small talk with Radavur and Abelas scanned the edge of the forest, wondering if they’d put any defensive wards up themselves or if they’d posted guards. So far, his own wards had remained silent, which he was grateful for as he took another drink. 

“I admit, I did not think there _were_ any clans in the Arbor Wilds.” 

Abelas turned his attention back to the Keeper, who was looking at him with unguarded interest that bordered on awe.

“If you’ve a mind to share about your clan and what you know of the area, I’ll gladly lend my ear.” 

Abelas took a slow sip of the ale. He had no desire to mine through his past to dig up nuggets of half truths which might satisfy the man. No desire to revisit his memories and wonder if Mythal had been visiting this man’s ancestors while he was locked in her temple. “I doubt there will be much of interest. For many years, my days were the same, and the area I knew was limited.”

“Did you not have to move around then?” The Keeper was surprised, bordering on suspicious, and Abelas realized he had no idea if all Dalish clans were nomadic or how often they might travel. He should have asked Nepenthe more about it. 

She seemed ready to interrupt but he stubbornly gambled on an answer. “The forest was rumored to be protected by powerful, ancient guardians. It discouraged anyone from crossing our borders.” He flicked his eyes to her before adding, “for the most part.” 

She shifted next to him, but he couldn’t see her expression. He wasn't sure if she’d taken it as a rebuke or as grudging respect for her tenacity. He wasn’t truly sure which way he’d meant it.

The Keeper nodded. “Aye, I’ve heard such rumors myself. Similar ones for all the great forests. ‘Don’t enter the woods or the guardians will take you,’” he mimicked, as one might warn a child. He shook his head and brought his cup to his mouth to drink, smiling as he did so.

Abelas’s fingers tightened on his cup, wondering where else there may still be temples and hidden sentinels. “You do not believe the stories?” 

“Ah,” the man swallowed then shrugged, “we’ve wandered the woods plenty and come across ruins now and then in our travels. Far as I can tell, there’s naught there but crumbling stone. It’s a fair thought though - that somewhere our history is protected.”

They’d evidently never traveled as far as Andruil’s temple then. Or realized they were living next to the embodiment of one of their gods. He was considering telling the man that the stories were all true when Nepenthe decided their charade had lasted long enough. Or she was worried about what he would say next. 

“In truth, he has not had much opportunity to explore the wider world and is curious to learn more of Dalish customs in different clans. And what better chance than this?” She smiled brightly at the Keeper. “Thank you again for your hospitality and the hospitality of your clan. I’m sure you have lots to do before dinner begins so we won’t take any more of your time.”

With a formal goodbye, she stood up and drew Abelas away toward the low tables where other elves were beginning to get settled. He was entertained again by her ability to maneuver a conversation. 

“Didn’t expect you’d have so much to say,” she chided under her breath, but her tone was amused rather than angry.

He tipped back the rest of his drink, feeling bone tired and slightly reckless. “In the right circumstances, I can be very verbal, molain.”

She snorted. “And what _circumstances_ are those?”

He had just enough time to hum noncommittally before Iovro spotted them, or more likely had been watching all along, and waved them over to where he was sitting at the head of a table. To his right was a stocky, smiling woman that he introduced as his wife and on her other side, their daughter - a child, though maybe not quite as young as the mage born children. Of the ten place settings at the table, there were two spaces remaining, possibly also Iovro’s doing, so he ended up sitting cross legged with Nepenthe on his left and Iovro on his right. He supposed he was glad to be sitting next to the garrulous elf. It might mean he’d be able to feed him topics and avoid having to talk much himself.

Fallani was further down the table, and when Abelas caught his eye, the hunter tipped his head. A moment later, Nepenthe looked in the same direction and Fallani turned on the charm, giving her a grin and a wink. Abelas glanced at her before looking away, wondering if she would prefer he was not by her side.

As everyone got settled, the Keeper began his welcome. It sounded like something he was reciting from long practice, though he did tell an amusing story about a showdown with a wildcat over a snared rabbit that had Iovro bent over with laughter, slapping at Abelas’s shoulder. The vallaslin of Andruil was a strange stamp on a man with such evident joy for life. How things had changed.

With a final blessing from the Keeper, the meal began and elves from each table fetched large wooden platters from the kitchen and brought them back. The woman at the far end of the table served herself then passed the dish to her neighbor.

As the food approached their end of the table, Nepenthe leaned into his side, their thighs pressed tight together, and whispered into his ear. “Eat with your right hand, pass food with your left._” _

And because she did not have her left hand, he passed the dishes for her.

“This is _bradh gen'adahl_, you can use it to dip in the sauces that are coming. The red one is really spicy,” she whispered.

She asked him for an extra spoonful of that one.

Almost immediately after, she leaned over again. “You’re expected to finish anything you put on your plate.”

He smiled at her like they were simply lovers sharing a secret. 

More dishes were passed around the table and it was undeniably pleasant to eat food that wasn’t rations, or whatever the Sentinels could hunt in the forest. Spices. _Fenedhis,_ he’d missed spices. Nepenthe explained briefly what things were. Halla milk yogurt sprinkled with dried flowers. Venison sausages with a jam made from berries. Pickled root vegetables. White fish and lichen soup. Fried mushrooms and herbs. A few things she couldn’t identify that were clan specialities. One turned out to be a kind of dumpling made from rabbit’s blood and halla milk that they both decided must be an acquired taste. Ale was passed and cups were filled and drained. He looked hopefully for potatoes, but sadly, there were none. 

His other dining companions talked amongst themselves, occasionally asking him questions which he answered monosyllabically in the hopes they would soon stop. He did have a brief but interesting discussion with Iovro’s wife about leatherworking before she was distracted by her daughter who had decided she’d had enough of dinner and was trying to escape under the table. 

Mostly he watched Nepenthe. For his cues as to what was expected, but he also saw the way she smiled at Iovro’s daughter and asked about her favorite games. The way the candlelight caught in the hollow of her throat. The way sometimes her expression grew haunted and sad as she looked off into the dark trees, rubbing her fingers along the embroidery at the neck of her tunic. The way she threw her head back to laugh. The way her knee pressed against his under the table, and she did not move it away.

As the plates became empty, some of the men came around to each table and delivered several glass bottles filled with a dark amber liquid. 

“Watch the whiskey. It’ll be strong,” she whispered, so close her lip brushed his ear and he felt a thrill slide like warm honey all the way down his spine. 

He turned his head, pressing his nose into her hair that smelled of lavender and cedar. “I know how to pace myself, molain.” 

He felt her breath catch where her chest was pressed against his arm and he hid his smile in the nest of her curls.

“Maybe you should be more worried about whether you can keep up,” she breathed, and her lips brushed his ear again, though this time he did not think it was an accident. The thrill kindled into a low thrum of desire and he knew he had briefly lost control of this game.

The Keeper began to give a blessing, and she turned away, as if she had merely made a comment about the weather, and was unaware of the effect she had on him. He exhaled slowly, watching the rapid beat of her pulse along her throat and the flush in her cheeks as she poured the whiskey into their cups.

Abelas missed most of what the man said, but clapped when everyone else did. She turned to him and tapped the edge of her cup gently against his. “_Ladarathe_,” she said quietly.

“_Ladarathe_,” he replied and tipped back his drink without breaking her gaze. The whiskey was strong and earthy and it burned a trail down his throat. He decided that he wouldn’t mind getting drunk tonight, and if part of that was due to the fact that it was much harder to enter the Fade in such a state, surely he couldn’t be blamed. Even the Wolf could not hunt his quarry if it never materialized.

He looked down the table and this time when Fallani met his eye, the hunter looked away. Internally, Abelas admonished himself - he should be past these simple games of jealousy, past this slow build of anticipation.

After the dishes were cleared away to a washing barrel and a group of young elves began scrubbing, they all moved to the fire and drums were brought out. Before they left the table, she tucked one of the small bottles of whiskey under her arm and grabbed their cups, motioning with her head for him to follow. He hadn’t noticed the effect of the ale so much when they’d been sitting, but now that they were moving, it caught up to him quickly. The world went hazy and soft and the sounds of rhythmic drumming mixed with the sparks swirling off the fire and the slow, warm buzz of the alcohol in his blood. 

She wove between benches, clearly with some destination in mind, and her limp was less pronounced. He hoped it was the potion working, and not just the effects of the drinks. It would be one less worry if she was healing. Bypassing the benches, she went all the way to the edge of the tented area, to a blanket nestled into the shadows of the trees. She placed the bottle and cups on the blanket and sat, resting her elbows on her knees. He mirrored her posture, curious to see what the celebration would next entail, more curious to see what she had in mind with the rest of the bottle. 

Drinking it, evidently. She pulled out the cork with her teeth, hesitated a moment as she eyed the cups, and then drank straight from the bottle. He tried not to guess as to why she might want to drown her problems. She grimaced, then shivered violently, and handed him the bottle.

“Someone told me to watch the whiskey,” he said. “It’s a bit strong.”

She nudged his elbow with hers. “_Someone_ told you to keep up.”

He took a slow sip from the bottle, not sure he needed to get much fuzzier when he was already so comfortable. Despite all the reasons he should not be.

The drumming grew quiet and the Keeper began to tell a story about Sylaise and the blessings of the harvest. Nepenthe shifted next to him.

She picked at the blanket, and ran her thumb along the seam of a patch. “I know how this seems to you. Backwards stories from a backwards people. But thousands of years have passed, Abelas, and this was what we were able to carry.” 

Back and forth her thumb went along the seam until she found a loose thread and began to loop it around her finger. “You talked about magic in the waking world being like a scoop of water in the bottom of a bowl. That’s what we’re left with from our culture as well. Over the years, that great big barrel was spilled through violence and slavery and genocide, until all that remained was the little we could hold in our hands. Even now, people keep trying to knock it away, and still we hold on to what is left.” She pulled the thread taught and it broke off. “For better or worse.”

He looked out over the gathering around the fire. The animated faces of the children watching the Keeper’s story, a couple of young men holding hands, an old woman comforting a fussing baby on her lap. Family. Home. Life. And everywhere, the shapes of vallaslin on the adult’s faces. Sylaise, June, Dirthamen, Falon’Din, Andruil, Elgar’nan, Mythal. Shapes that were still remarkably similar to the original designs, though they were no longer truly the marks of the Evanuris.

A life constructed from what was left after everything fell apart. A life patched and mended by generations of hands. A life that bore the scars and damage from the past, but still held.

And as he watched them, he began to feel that perhaps they were not the shadows left behind, lingering on in a faded world, but rather he was. A shade that remained when everything else had changed. He looked down at his hands and turned one palm up, studying the lines on his palm and a faint scar that ran along the base of his thumb. A scar that had been on his hand before the oldest tree in this forest had been a sapling. 

What had he managed to carry with him? Everything had slipped through his fingers. His family, his culture, his goddess, his duty. 

_You cannot imagine. Each time we wake it slips further from our grasp. _Words he’d said to her when they first met. It had felt so rapid to him, the changes. Spending years drifting in the strange currents of the Fade, only to wake decades or centuries later to see what had been lost. 

He had not considered that this was what remained when the twin grindstones of time and hardship turned history to dust. 

“We don’t deserve your scorn,” she said softly.

“I know you think I come from a time of war and slavery,” he said quietly. “You rail against it now that you know some of the truth. There was much that was wrong, but there was value as well, and I mourn the loss of it.” He closed his hand and looked up at her face in the flickering dark. “But you are right. You do not deserve my scorn. Nor do your people.” _Our people,_ he thought, trying the words out, but they stuck on his tongue. 

“_Your_ people, too,” she pressed, as if she’d sensed his hesitation. “We’re your descendants. Sort of.” A flicker of anxiety crossed her face. “I mean, not...not literally. Unless... You didn’t… Did you...”

“No,” he said softly, catching on to her concern before she fumbled through the rest of her thought. “I did not have children. It was not allowed.” Though one of the Sentinels under his command had a child in secret, and he remembered the man’s anguish well, once he realized his daughter would die a mortal death eons before his service claimed him.

“But speaking of… the Dalish,” he said, hoping for diplomacy, “why did you not correct them before and tell them _you_ are Dalish?”

She turned her face away. “And then what? Tell them Fen’Harel is real, and alive, and removed my vallaslin? A mark of honor and a rite of passage for my people?” She touched her cheek.

“Would you have chosen otherwise now?” 

She took a swig from the bottle, winced. “It’s done. And it… even if I still had it, I couldn’t…” Her throat worked. “I couldn’t go back.” She clenched her jaw, nostrils flaring, and tightened her fingers around the neck of the bottle until her knuckles turned white.

She closed her eyes and ground out, “not now,” in a voice tight with suppressed emotion.

“I did not mean to upset you.” He ran his fingers along the raised pattern of his own vallaslin. “It is a hard thing when you are not sure where you fit.” It seemed like more than that upset her, but if it involved Fen’Harel, he did not want to pry.

She took a deep breath and shook her head, turning to him with a strained smile. “Drink to that,” she said, passing him the bottle, and he did.

When he glanced up, Iovro was looking in their direction from across the camp where he sat with Fallani and another woman. When he caught Abelas’s eye, he stood and began weaving his way toward them on unsteady feet.

She caught the approach as well. “We’re about to get roped into a card game that’ll last for hours unless we make an escape.”

“And you cannot run, molain. I hope you brought enough coin to lose some.” He got to his feet, still holding the bottle, hoping he could distract her from whatever painful memories were tied to her vallaslin.

She looked at him with actual surprise for a moment, then caught on and scoffed, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t dare. If you leave me, you leave the whiskey here.”

He pretended to consider this, then shrugged. “Who has to keep up now?”

Nepenthe twitched her fingers and he felt the stirrings of a binding spell along his skin. Before it could take hold, he dispelled it and shook his head. “Perhaps they will not want you in their card game after all. Such underhanded tactics.”

She laughed. “Help me up, he’s getting closer.”

Relenting, he pulled her to her feet and put up a hazy barrier around them. It wouldn’t have fooled a sober mind, but it was enough to confuse Iovro momentarily, and he stopped halfway across the clearing, looking around in comical bewilderment. With quiet whiskey-laced laughter, she held onto his arm as they stumbled their way through the shadows of the trees, back to the aravel. 

They fumbled through getting ready for bed, apparently in unspoken agreement that they’d simply share the space. There were slit windows at the top of the aravel that he hadn’t noticed before, just wide enough to let in the light from the moon. The forms surrounding them remained dark but their edges were highlighted a faint silver, which gave the space a fuzzy indistinctness that matched his hazy thoughts. He didn’t bother with a magelight, the darkness was welcome.

Once he’d spread the bedroll at the front of the aravel, he lay down and with a groan, she joined him. Then began to giggle. 

“Oh gods, did you see his face? We have to apologize tomorrow.” 

She laughed louder, then covered her mouth with her hand, trying to muffle it. Unsuccessfully. She glanced at him helplessly, shoulders shaking and tears leaking from the corner of her eyes. He tried to quiet her, but it only made her laugh harder, rolling toward him and burying her face into his arm. 

“I’m sorry,” she gasped out. “Ignore me.”

“Impossible.”

She twisted to look up at him, and he realized he was smiling mindlessly at her. She wiped at her eyes, nearly dissolving into laughter again, and his gaze flicked between her dark eyes and her crooked smile outlined in moonlight. It would be so easy to close the distance between them. And there were so many reasons not to. A thousand reasons layered thick in the few inches between them.

The moment stretched and her smile slipped into parted lips and shallow breaths. He did not move, waiting to see what she would do, and time flowed around them like they were an island in a current. It was a small movement - an inhaled breath, a slight lift of her chin toward him - that made him press his lips to hers. Soft, unsure if she would draw back, push him away. But she did not. She did not, and as she parted her lips, her hand came up to the back of his neck, hot against his skin, pulling him closer. 

Their teeth met and, _fenedhis_, he was out of practice. They fumbled for a moment, hurried and desperate to make it work, until he pulled away and took a breath. He could just make out her expression, want mixed with confusion and wide-eyed worry. Her lip, wet and shining. 

Desire struck him so hard his stomach clenched. 

This was a terrible idea, he thought, as he kissed her again, slowly, and this time they found their rhythm. He closed his eyes, losing himself in the smell of her skin, and in the feel of her mouth that tasted faintly like whiskey, and in her tongue stroking along his bottom lip. 

He should stop this, he thought, as he opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, running his hand along her jawline and tracing the contour of her ear. The gasp she let out lost between their lips. She moved her hand up his neck, fingers flexing into his scalp, and he groaned and pulled her closer to him, desire hot like electricity along his skin. Gods it had been so long. So long since he'd had anything like this. He’d forgotten he missed these sensations, these feelings. Though _these_ feelings existed somewhere between a dream half remembered and the scorching beginning of a new day. 

He should stop this, he thought, as he found the edge of her tunic and ran his fingers under it. Soft, _fenedhis_, she was so soft, the muscles of her back tensing as she arched into his touch. He could do this all night. Just this. This heated meeting of bodies and lips and sighs. The earlier false start was forgotten as instinct took over and they just seemed to fit. He moved onto his back, holding her against him and slipped his thigh between her legs. She rolled her hips down on him, and they both moaned and he wondered fleetingly if they were being too loud, but he did not truly care.

He really should stop this, he thought, as he broke away to press ragged kisses to her neck, one hand flat against her back, the other tangling in her hair. She kissed the side of his face, his temple, his ear, before finding the spot just beneath it that made him shiver and thrust his hips up into her. 

“_Isalan na_,” [I want you] he whispered and she let out a shaky breath, hot on his cheek.

“Off.” A gasped demand, pulling at the neck of his sweater. When he removed it, she settled back on his hips and ran her palm down his chest, across his stomach, her hand rising and falling with his heaving breaths. And when she dipped her thumb under the waistband of his trousers, his breath caught in his throat and he tried to remember anything that had felt better than this. She moved against him, rocking her hips, and the friction along his length was almost too much, dizzying. When their eyes met, her lips fell open on a tiny moan, and he surged up to meet her, desperately capturing her mouth again. 

As they continued, he learned things. She liked his hands on her back, but her sides were ticklish, her smile flashing quick and bright. The tips of her ears were sensitive, as was a spot along her neck. She pressed into him hard, with a raw intensity, as if pressure could turn this into something that made sense. Her skin was sometimes surprisingly hot. She liked his fingers in her hair and when he gave a gentle, experimental tug, she tipped her head back and moaned his name, gripping his shoulder. The pulse of desire it sent to his core nearly shattered him and he would have spent hours, days, finding all the ways he could get her to say it again. 

But he heard the warning underneath the plea. The realization that they were hurtling toward some precipice they might not recover from. 

He should stop this before they went too far. Neither of them were completely sober, and he would not want her to regret it in the morning. His hands stilled and dropped to her thighs and something shifted between them - maybe she had recognized the point of no return as well. She drew back, still straddling his hips, and he watched her face, highlighted faintly in the moonlight. 

She met his eyes, breathing hard, hair made soft and wild under his hands. Beautiful. He fought the urge to kiss her once more. She closed her eyes, her face twisting briefly to an expression of such raw anguish that it made him freeze, and he knew it had been a mistake. She took a shuddering breath, spreading her hand against his chest, but as she exhaled, instead of rolling off, she folded against him, resting her forehead on his chin. When she stayed there, and gently pushed his hair off his neck, he slowly embraced her. A delicate touch, as if anything firmer would shatter this moment that had already stretched too long. He kissed her on her hairline and she huffed into his neck.

“I heard the whiskey was strong.”

“Is that what we are blaming this on, molain?” he asked, his voice low.

He could feel her pulse along her throat, a thrumming rhythm that matched his own, and when she swallowed, it was an audible thing. “No,” she admitted, and he got a thrill - _dangerous_ \- at her honesty. “But we can’t. Not like this. Not with…”

He tried to parse where she was going with that, and failed. There were plenty of reasons they should not have done what they just did. Were still doing.

“Not with what?”

She shook her head slightly, her curls tickling his nose and he did not mind at all. 

“I’m sorry.” She straightened up, started to shift off his lap. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

“Nepenthe.” Abelas ran his hand down her arm to her elbow. “You don’t have to go. Or explain. It does not have to be anything more than this. Sleep here. I can go.”

“No. Stay,” she said simply, but it landed somewhere between a demand and an appeal. “We’re both tired and no one needs to rough it by the fire.” 

She moved off of him, leaving cold emptiness where she had been, and lay down with a few inches of space between them. “Stay. Please,” she repeated, as if she sensed his indecision, and he gave in. He searched for the blanket, finding it kicked down to the end of the bedroll, and drew it up over them.

The space between them was good. Better to have space. Better to forget this had happened. Focus on what he needed to do, without distractions.

He closed his eyes. She shifted next to him, and then he felt a tentative touch, her hand on his chest. 

They seemed destined to fall off that cliff in one way or another. 

“Is this ok?” she asked.

_Better to have space. _

“Yes.” He reached up and covered her hand with his own, her skin soft under the calluses of fingertips. “Is this?” 

_Better to forget._

“Yes.” She yawned deeply. “Abelas, remember when you asked how I cast?” Her voice was already thick with sleep. 

_Better to focus without distractions._

He hummed his assent, quickly losing his own battle with lucidity. He hoped he would have trouble entering the Fade, or still had the focus to keep up his barriers. He should probably care more than he could muster at the moment.

“I use the cuff in my ear as my focus. My friend made it for me. A way to make it less obvious that I’m a mage. It’s come in handy a few times.”

“I remember.” He thought back to the Sentinels, when they had fortuitously believed she had no magic. How differently everything might have gone if that had not been the case. His fingers tightened slightly on hers.

Her breath evened out and the last thing he remembered before sleep overtook him was dark lashes lowering over gray eyes, and the scent of wood smoke.

He woke sometime later, hot and confused, with a weight pinning down his arm. Blinking his eyes, he tried to focus but everything was dark and the pounding in his head fell somewhere between still drunk and hungover. 

What had woken him? The wards? No, they were still silent. His fingers were clumsy as he conjured a magelight - it flared too bright and he extinguished it, cursing, white spots exploding behind his eyes. He tried again, and managed a tiny light, glowing dully orange. Better.

Nepenthe was asleep on his arm, and even in the low light he could tell something was wrong. Sweat-slicked hair was stuck to her forehead and her breathing was shallow and quick through parched lips. He pressed the back of his hand to her cheek and she stirred faintly. 

_Venavis_. She was burning up.

As he moved her head to the bedroll, feeling started to come back to his tingling fingers and he shook them out, wincing. She’d said she had more tonics from the healer, they must be here somewhere. A cursory inspection of the shelves turned up nothing, but left his head spinning slightly. He stood up to look for her pack, stifling a yawn, and cracked his head on the underside of a shelf. He cursed again. But there was her pack, laying on its side, shoved next to a stack of bowls. 

He did not want to dig through her things, but surely the tonics would be accessible? Abelas unfastened the buckle and opened the flap, then pulled the magelight closer to see what he was looking at. The contents were a mess, and he had a hazy memory of her searching for a toothbrush last night. 

Before they kissed. 

Not the time to start thinking about it.

He shifted a book out of the way and heard a promising clink. Digging deeper, his hand closed around something hard and he pulled it out, but it was just her cooking pan. There though, there was the tonic, a large bottle, glowing faintly blue in the bottom of the bag. He grabbed it and sat back down by her side.

“Molain.” He stroked her forehead. Too hot. Had that been why she’d felt so warm under his hands last night? The beginnings of a fever? “Molain, _sathan_ _thena_.” It took him a moment to realize he’d slipped into Elvhen, and he pushed his mind back into common, the words feeling heavy and slow. “Molain, wake up.” 

Her eyes fluttered and she looked at him blearily. 

“You need to take this.” He held out the tonic and her eyes slid closed again.

He slipped an arm under her shoulders, pulling her until she was sitting in his lap with her head resting against his bare chest. “Take this and you can go back to sleep.” 

She grumbled something inaudible, but raised her hand unsteadily, reaching for the tonic. He helped her hold it and bring it to her mouth, then realized he had no idea what the dose should be. “How much, molain?”

“Count of two,” she muttered, and he tipped it up for her, hoping she’d remembered correctly.

She slumped back, turning her head into his neck, and he pushed the hair off her face. A gesture that somehow felt more intimate than what they’d done before. He debated trying a healing spell as well, but he didn’t want to interfere with the tonic since it had seemed effective earlier. Hopefully it would help again. It had to help again. 

Carefully, he laid her down on the bedroll and stood up, warily eying the shelf, to get her water flask from her pack. As he looked for it, a pattern caught his eye. Something wrapped in a shirt, just a small portion of it visible within her bag. The magelight hovered by his shoulder as he reached for it slowly. His finger brushed metal and he traced the swirling groove along its curve.

He knew. Even without fully unwrapping it, he knew. His eyes slid shut and he clenched his jaw.

A series of impressions flicked through his mind and he tried to make sense of them. Behind him, she was already breathing more evenly - a soft, everyday sound that melded with the crickets outside. The aravel still smelled of leather and wood - ordinary scents. His finger was on a _na'sou'durgen_. The orb of an Evanuri. 

He opened his eyes, still processing, wishing he had not seen it. Wishing it was not there. Wishing it had never _existed_. Wishing he could shut the bag, curl up by her side, and sleep until his life was simple again. 

Seemingly of their own volition, his fingers pushed the shirt further aside and pulled the orb out of her bag.

It was heavy, but it should have been far heavier if it could bear the weight of all the destruction it had caused. And she’d carried it since the temple, limping for miles with this in her pack. While the Sentinels tracked them down and tried to kill them, and she feigned ignorance. While she asked him questions about the Evanuris, and the titans, and the orbs. While she had offered a different life and whispered in his ear and kissed his neck - _this_ had been in her pack. 

Andruil’s orb. 

He stared mutely at the patterns on its surface, emotions swirling through his mind like a fog. He was hurt, without truly being able to figure out why. When had she stolen it? And had she used him in some way to get it? He’d seen the way she manipulated others, it was entirely possible she was doing the same to him. Though even now, part of him argued that she wasn’t manipulating, she was redirecting in an effort to protect herself. And him as well. More importantly though - what was she planning to do with it? 

His head swam and he ground the heel of his hand into his forehead. _Fenedhis_. He couldn’t _think_. But he knew that if he’d been the one to find it, he wouldn’t have hesitated to take it and leave.

The current of his duty pulled at him again, the feeling of it seeping around him, rising under his feet, returning as inevitably as the tide to drag him under. As he moved down the aravel, he felt curiously disconnected from his body, with a dull pressure behind his eyes from drink or disappointment. He watched himself put the orb in his pack, remove his trousers, and layer on his armor with the automatic movements of long practice, though his fingers shook on the clasps.

As he opened the door, with no plan beyond needing to leave, he extinguished the magelight. The night outside was dark, cold, the faint scent of burnt wood still lingering in the air. On the top step, he looked back, though it was impossible to see anything in the aravel. All was quiet. She had not woken, and his last chance of turning back dissipated like quiet breaths into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bradh gen'adahl = a type of unleavened bread made from roots  
Ladarathe = The Elvhen equivalent of ‘cheers’ (lit. to your health)  
Venavis = a curse, the English equivalent would be something like ‘shit, no!’ or an emphatic NO  
Sathan thena = please wake up
> 
> Me: what.the.hell.  
My brain: You knew it had to happen at some point  
Me: A different point. Pick a different point.  
My brain: it’s plot  
Me: No plot, just snuggles.  
My brain: -_-
> 
> To everyone reading - you're wonderful. I hope you're all doing ok. Your comments are so appreciated, please yell at me.
> 
> You can also [find me on Tumblr](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/), where I've started trying to learn how to draw, like [this head kiss](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/post/619329026909192192/i-just-really-like-abelas-he-deserves-all-the/)


	21. Repercussions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter recap: Dalish celebrations and whiskey kisses. And then Abelas discovered the orb in the middle of the night.... and left....

Nepenthe cracked open an eye and squinted blearily at the unwelcome light. Daylight. And not early either from the looks of it.

She ran her tongue over her teeth and licked her lips, rough and dry. Water. The thought wound though her pounding head slowly - she’d give anything for water right now. How much had she had to drink? Had it really been so long since she’d had Dalish whiskey that she couldn’t handle it anymore? 

She pushed sweat damp hair off her face and winced at the ache in her joints. As she lifted her head up, a ringing started in her ears and she shook her head to clear it. And immediately regretted it, as her vision swam and her stomach lurched. She dropped her head back down, finally remembering to attempt a healing spell. It was enough to reduce the pain to a manageable level, and with luck, a quick rinse in the stream and some breakfast would take care of the rest. 

She stretched and rolled over, double checking what she’d somehow already processed - that Abelas wasn’t next to her. Hopefully, he was just outside and hadn’t started talking to the Keeper about guardians in the Arbor Wilds again. Though, more hopefully, he was finding them something for breakfast. 

The idea of Abelas bringing her breakfast suddenly felt so absurd it ground all her thoughts to a halt. 

Abelas.

Abelas, who she had kissed last night. 

More than kissed.

She rubbed her neck and the memory of his hands running over her body came back along with a twinge of desire that snapped straight to her core. Snippets from the night floated hazily back, something both immediate and distant about them. 

The quirk of his smile before his lips were on hers, the slow way he kissed her, as if he was trying to remember each sensation. His eyes, dark, blown wide when he drew back. His breath against her ear, his mouth on her neck, his words, whispered in Elvhen. The taste of him on her tongue. His hands._ Fuck. _ His hands. Those long, elegant fingers clenching on her thighs, running along her back, tangling in her hair. The way he looked under her. The way he _ felt _ under her, definitely as big as the rest of him, as she rocked her hips. 

_ Fenedhis_. She rubbed her hand over her face. Things were complicated enough without adding this confused intimacy. They should forget it ever happened. But even under the edges of her fever, the memory was enough to send a thrill along her skin that ended tingling in her extremities. She rolled onto her back, considering whether she had the energy to just stick her hand down her smalls and take care of this distraction before he came back. 

Although... shit. She hadn’t really had the urge since the Exalted Council and it was going to be a different experience with only one hand. The desire evaporated, leaving only a bone deep weariness in its place. 

How had she let it get so far with Abelas? She wasn’t exactly a naive da’len anymore, falling for someone because he had good hands and flirted with her over dinner.

...and answered all her questions more thoughtfully than she expected. And saved her life. Twice. And instead of leaving when he’d had the opportunity, had come with her. And didn’t lie about who he was. Though, that last point seemed like a bit of a low bar, if she was being honest. 

She blew out her breath and buried her face in the bedroll, his bedroll, inhaling the lingering scents of smoke and summer meadows. He smelled so good it wasn’t fair. 

And he wasn’t Solas. Perhaps she’d been wrong, mentally comparing them so many times. As she had done again last night, wondering what Solas would have done had he been there instead. He probably would have been charming, despite his thinly veiled dislike of the Dalish. His manners had always been impeccable at least. 

She frowned. Or he would have gotten into a philosophical argument over the creators and she would have had to work to smooth things over. 

The frown deepened. Or he would have tried to covertly recruit elves to his cause. 

She’d watched Abelas closely for that as well, waiting to see if he had contact with anyone in the clan. Anyone who might be an agent for Solas. But he had not. He had tried to fit in. Well, as much as a taciturn, overly large, ancient elf could fit in. He’d been polite, he’d done everything she’d asked him to. But not in a way that suggested artifice, he’d seemed like… himself.

He’d seemed like he might be changing his mind. Though, she’d thought the same of Solas at one time.

Shit. This was too much to think about before breakfast. She sat up with a sharp exhale and froze, taking in the state of the aravel. Her pack was tipped over on the floor, the flap open, her cooking pan and extra clothing dumped next to it. Further down, the place where Abelas’s belongings had been was empty. For a moment she did nothing, as a slow, creeping dread moved through her chest. Then, on numb legs, she crawled to her bag and pulled it open with a trembling hand. She dug around, slowly at first, then frantically, and finally she grabbed the bottom and dumped out the contents. Books, tonic, map, flask, prosthetic, food, healing kit, the broken arrow - all tumbled around her. She flipped through everything, ran her hand inside her bag, looked in the cooking pot. Checked it all again. As if it had merely been misplaced. As if by continuing to look, she could prevent the inevitable. 

She lifted her head, pretending she heard his footsteps on the stairs, the door creaking open. _ Just looking for my toothbrush_, she’d say, to explain the mess around her, the orb safely stored at the bottom of her bag. _ You used it last night_, he’d remind her, a smile playing around his lips. 

She remembered that now - she _ had _ used it last night. It was on a shelf. 

And then maybe she’d convince him to come back with her, to Skyhold, join her and work to stop Solas. Tell him about the orb. Use it for something good.

But the door did not open. And he did not come in. And the orb was not here. 

And he was not here.

Her throat constricted as she glanced back to the bedroll they’d shared. She was suddenly flooded with envy - envy of the Nepenthe who had woken up there, and had, until a moment ago, only been dealing with a terrible hangover and a slight fever. The Nepenthe who had flicked through an inconsequential series of thoughts, only made exceptional because of the last, precious oblivion they contained. 

She slumped back against the aravel shelves, staring down at her missing hand. At her empty bag. Sometimes it felt like she’d stopped being herself every time something terrible happened. Or at least, she stopped being that version of herself, and while she moved on, her other selves were left in her wake, a series of Nepenthes stuck in time. There was Nepenthe who never became the Herald, and maybe she was still growing flax and trading yarn with the mill in Ansburg. Nepenthe who never lost her clan, and maybe she was still getting their letters filled with news from home, and a new cloak or set of gloves from time to time, because they’d heard it was colder in Ferelden. Nepenthe who never lost Solas, and maybe she had convinced him to change his plans and they were somewhere together, smiling and teasing each other about their tea preferences.

Nepenthe who never let a second orb slip through her useless fingers.

Her vision swam, and a nebulous joke about missing half her fingers flitted through her mind as she leaned over and retched the last contents of her stomach onto the aravel floor.

* * *

Abelas skirted the human village in the early morning light, smoke from their cooking fires mixing with the mist and drifting into the trees where he traveled in shadows. He should be happy.

He reached the crest of a hill and looked over a forested landscape, bands of rain slicing across the sky in the distance. He should be happy. The orb had been an unexpected boon and could make all the difference in Fen’Harel’s success. In their success. 

He should be happy. But he was not. And he looked for truth in the mud and the crushed grass under his feet. In the footprints he left behind. In the sweat that collected along his hairline, and the breath in his lungs, and the ache in his muscles, hour after hour.

It was late afternoon when he sensed the eluvian - a tremor in the energy of the_ i’ve’an’aria_, something pulling on it to create a small disturbance. He followed the energy signature to a dense section of forest before the signal winked out as the eluvian went dormant. Through random exploration, he finally located it tucked within an interior chamber of a small ruin, nearly hidden under a profusion of trailing vines. Some had been moved aside, though it wasn't obvious if it was from someone coming or going. 

The eluvian itself was dark, it’s surface corroded with time but still intact, enough of the mirror finish remaining for Abelas to see his reflection in it. He studied himself. Tired and grim, the end of his braid still unraveled from her hands. The branching vallaslin of Mythal across his forehead - a brand of his duty. Of everything he had promised. To serve. To fight with honor. To be loyal. 

And when everything was lost - where did that loyalty go? Did it find a new target, someone else to latch onto? Or did it simply circle around inside himself, a storm that left him directionless?

He should be happy, he told himself for the hundredth time, as he brought his hand toward the surface of the mirror, stretching his fingers so they did not waiver. 

A touch. A word. And the eluvian would unlock. He could go back through the crossroads, and find his way to Fen’Harel’s camp. If he’d found the orb first, he wouldn’t have hesitated. His fingers wavered over the cracked face of the eluvian. 

Perhaps he could use the orb to ask for answers from Fen’Harel, barter for information. Though more likely, the Wolf would get far more information from him. Maneuvering for power had never been his forte, despite working for Mythal who was a brilliant politician - unparalleled in her ability to influence events and opinion. Using people in whatever ways she needed to achieve her aims. 

Even him. Of course even him. That he had been too arrogant and too blind and too _ grateful _ to see it did not make it less true. 

His face looked back at him. Blurred, distorted. Like everything in his life. _ Fenedhis_. Was this the way?

Someone was approaching. He drew his hand away and quickly slipped behind a ruined section of wall. Footsteps, more than one set, came steadily through the underbrush, moving slowly but confidently in his direction. Someone was limping. A strange thrill went through him but no - he’d outpaced her by miles in the dark of the night, and she could not run to catch him this time. 

He angled himself, stooping slightly, to look through a small crack in the wall, just enough space to see the area in front of the eluvian. And he waited, a binding spell at the ready.

* * *

As they crossed a ditch, Nepenthe’s head cracked against the side of the small, wooden _ tel’dialun _ and she clenched her teeth, pain shooting through her skull. The cart would usually have been used for carrying large or awkwardly shaped things that didn’t fit in an aravel, but now it was empty, save for herself and her pack and she had to brace her uninjured leg against the side to keep from sliding around. 

It had been a numb series of negotiations, conducted through a haze of defeat and a lingering hangover, but finally she had convinced the clan to give her a ride to the outskirts of Redcliffe village. Negotiations had eventually concluded when she paid a sum that could have bought her a month’s worth of supplies. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was moving again. 

The elf that was driving the cart was young, maybe twenty. Old enough to handle himself, young enough that an inconvenient errand fell to him. He was also mercifully quiet, talking only to the halla that were pulling the cart, and sometimes singing to himself.

Hours passed. They used her map to stay clear of any settlements, cutting across land and sticking to the forest for the most part. She tried to read, pulling out the copy of _ Glyphs That Work! _and scanning the introduction.

_ For ease of explanation in the further instruction of rune casting, the following terminology will be used when describing the motions required for successful glyphs… _

Abelas had cast his glyph on the inside of her wrist, his finger confidently trailing over her skin, linking her to his wards. She suspected the book did not mention the best location to place them. Her own wards, simple as they were, had not activated last night - a small mercy to be thankful for. And if the Sentinels were still tracking the orb… No. He had made his choice. It was done. She picked up the book again, stubbornly training her eyes on the next line.

_ Running end - the active end of the glyph, not to be confused with the trailing end, which is only linked at the conclusion of the motion. _

He’d taught her how to use the vibrations in a magical field to dispel a barrier. Patient, controlled, even as the Sentinels were breaching the ice wall. He’d asked about her spellwork, and she hated to admit she’d imagined them trading magic with each other. And recipes. And stories... No. Focus on the book.

_ Crossing point - any intersection in the glyph where the casting motion crosses over itself. _

His smile before he’d kissed her, his hand covering hers, the connection of their magic, a warm flow across her skin...

No.

She slammed the book shut. Clenched her jaw.

_ Harden your heart to a cutting edge. _But she was tired. So tired of being hard. Of being angry. 

Of being wrong. 

She stared at the worn wood by her feet, and when that became too monotonous, she stared at the clouds overhead until it began to rain lightly. And then she curled into her cloak and stared at the stitching along the edge of the hood. She’d embroidered it in a twining design of light purple thread, back when she could still stitch. Back when she still had two hands.

She wished she could do it now. Something to keep her fingers busy and her mind occupied. So she didn’t keep looking too far back. Or too far forward. Better to think of only the immediate steps. 

She would ride in the _ tel’dialun_. She would make her way back to Skyhold. She would tell her friends she had handed Solas another orb. She would be responsible for more destruction. More death. 

The ringing came back in her ears and she stretched her jaw open trying to clear it. Not just ringing, the driver was saying something to her.

She pulled back the edge of her hood. “What?”

He turned around on the bench, water dripping from the edge of his cloak. “What’s that?”

“Did you say something?”

“No. You need a break?”

She shook her head and dropped her hood back over her face. The achiness was starting in her joints again and she fumbled in her pack until she found the tonic. She’d at least had the presence of mind to have it refilled this morning. 

By the time they reached the outskirts of Redcliffe, it was early evening. He left her in the woods by a small stream and told her he wanted to head back immediately to get as far as possible before it was dark. As the halla and the driver began to move off, she suddenly had an urge to call him back, ask him to stay with her for the night. Just to have company. Just to have something to distract from the gnawing void inside her.

The_ tel’dialun _disappeared between the trees and her throat closed up.

As she unrolled the bedroll, Abelas’s bedroll, too tired to bother rigging a tarp, his sweater fell out onto the ground. For a long moment, she stared at it, unable to remember seeing it when she had packed earlier. It must have been trapped in the blanket. 

She picked up the sweater and carried it several meters away, placing it on a rock. Like an offering. She stood back and pulled for a spell, and his sweater ignited in a blaze of fire that nearly reached the canopy of leaves above. Too much. Her vision blurred and in the flickering light of the fire, the trees warped into dark shapes wreathed in red with grasping hands and jagged antlers. The sounds of the crackling flames fractured into layers, grating voices echoing strangely underneath, a message she could almost hear if it wasn’t for the ringing in her ears again. A feeling she needed to be somewhere else, go somewhere else. Something calling her with a song older than her name. 

She spun around, unable to shake the sense she wasn’t alone, but there was nothing there, and the motion sent her reeling. Her head throbbed and she swayed on her feet. She needed to lie down. On legs that felt strangely disconnected, she stumbled to the bedroll and just managed to pull herself into it before everything went dark.

* * *

From behind the wall, Abelas saw three figures appear. Two elves in armor, one of whom was covered in blood from a wound at her shoulder and another at her hip. And a Sentinel. One of his soldiers.

The man had his back to him and Abelas waited. When he bent down to say something to the wounded elf, he turned and Abelas recognized him. A friend. At one point. This would likely be the best chance he had to learn of the Wolf’s recent movements without a direct confrontation.

“Ilen.”

The other Sentinel startled and snapped a barrier into place around himself and his companions. 

Abelas walked out from behind the wall. “_Rosa'felas, panelan_.” [At ease, soldier.]

The Sentinel dropped the barrier, responding in Elvhen. _ “Abelas? We thought you had fallen. We took the temple and you were not there.” _

_ “You took Andruil’s temple?” _ He frowned. _ “Where is the remainder of your force?” _Surely they had not lost so many attacking the temple. Andruil’s Sentinels were well trained, but Fen’Harel would not have sent unseasoned soldiers against them.

_ “Ahead. Already through the eluvian. We are the last returning.” _

_ “And you were successful? Her Sentinels have been destroyed?” _

_ “We were fortunate to suffer few casualties. None of her Sentinels remain alive, though their numbers were less than anticipated given your report.” _

That was worrying news. Though perhaps not completely unexpected. If they could sense the orb, somehow, even in its dormant state, then presumably they were still trying to track it. The attack at the temple may have slowed them down, but some of them must still be out there. 

_ “I regret I could not be there for the attack. I had a debt to settle with their High Priestess.” _

A flicker of doubt crossed Ilen’s face. _ “We encountered no Priestess. None that bore her markings.” _

“We almost done here?” the injured woman interrupted. “Or am I going to bleed out while you two catch up? Fucked if I know why you can’t just heal me now. I’ve seen you lot use magic.” She spat onto the ground.

“Neria was shot.” Ilen looked between the two of them, licked his lips. “She needs… attention.”

Abelas could see now where the arrows had been broken off at the shaft, but there was something in the other Sentinel’s tone, a warning layered under his words. 

Abelas switched back into Elvhen. If he spoke quickly enough, even if the two women had some knowledge of the language, they probably would not be able to understand. _ “Speak plainly.” _

Ilen matched his language switch, and his pace, his words murmured in a low undertone. “_The arrows, rajelan. They are arrows of the void. Vir’banalras remains.” _

Abelas worked to keep his face neutral as his pulse thudded in his veins. _ Vir’banalras_. The way of shadow. A form of Andruil’s blight magic, used to procure more bodies for her insane searching. It stripped her victims of their will and connected them to hers and her single-minded pursuit of more power. It drove them to mine the tainted lyrium, twisted their bodies and their minds. It destroyed them.

_ Venavis._

How had he not looked more closely at the arrow he extracted from Nepenthe’s thigh? How had he not seen the signs? 

Too busy wondering about her relationship with the Wolf. Too busy thinking about the ways she surprised him. Too busy thinking about the hope in her smile, the lines of her neck, the curls of her hair. And if he was too late… _ Venavis_.

With his pulse roaring in his ears, he realized something else. The Sentinels weren’t tracking the orb. They were tracking the magic in her leg. 

_“Fen’Harel may be able to heal her better than I can,” _ Ilen continued. _ “Counteract it. We should move though.” _

Abelas forced himself to nod. Once the blight magic took root, it was exceptionally difficult to extract. If anyone could do it though, it would be the Wolf. And what that meant for Nepenthe… he didn’t know. He could think on it later. He needed to move. He needed to reach her first.

He looked Ilen in the face, wishing he could tell him the truth. Tell him of everything he learned. But there was no time. 

_ “I will not return with you. Andruil’s Priestess remains, and I believe I know where she is heading.” _

Ilen frowned_. “Will you not wait for more support?” _

_ “No, time is against me as it is.” _

Ilen nodded, stepping toward the eluvian and raising his hand. He paused before he activated it. _ “What should I tell Fen’Harel?” _

Abelas was already running out of the ruin and he called back over his shoulder. _ “Tell him I have something to take care of.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES  
I’ve’an’aria = the Veil  
Tel’dialun = a type of open aravel/cart (lit. not cover)  
Venavis = a curse, the English equivalent would be something like ‘shit, no!’ or an emphatic NO
> 
> My Brain: Look - I fixed things. He's going back.  
Me: Did you? DID YOU? This is getting worse!
> 
> Thank you ALL for reading - your comments and reactions and kudos are amazing and I treasure them all. <3
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely beta TheLittlestFische!  
Also, I [made more Abelas art](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/post/620497061919522816/i-had-a-need-to-draw-abelas-looking-soft-and)


	22. Echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on: Nepenthe woke up in an aravel by herself and realized Abelas had left. She traveled to an area just outside Redcliffe, used magic and everything went wonky. Abelas went in another direction, ran into one of Mythal's Sentinels returning from Andruil's temple and realized the arrows were Bad News and also that the Priestess was still able to track Nepenthe....
> 
> Sorry for the little bit longer delay than usual - had to work out some travel times and plotty things. Now things are in motion.... also, this chapter is a long one :)

Nepenthe’s fingers slid through soft mud, raking it into a small pile. She scooped it up in her palms, dappled sunlight shifting across its surface. 

“Again?” she asked, smiling, kneeling on the slippery banks of the river. “Are you sure?”

A delighted shout answered her. “Again!”

She dropped the mud onto Tamlen’s feet with a splat and he dissolved into giggles, yelling _ again, again, again _. His small toes wiggled up through the mud and she pretended to be surprised, quickly covering them with more mud to a fresh round of toddler laughter.

Her cousin, Ise, looked back over her shoulder where she sat in the river, and they shared a smile because it was summertime, and the river was cool, and the flax crop was good, and everyone was fed, and Tamlen was laughing, and maybe this year would be better.

_ Again, again, again. _

Something caught her eye, moving through the trees, and she turned her head. 

“Wolf!”

“No, da’len, there are no wolves here.”

But something was coming, moving slowly through the underbrush, not a wolf, but a man.

She watched him approach, something already familiar about his silhouette, and the set of his shoulders, and the way he moved, graceful and sure.

She held her hand above her eyes, squinting, her heart beating faster as anxiety pooled in her stomach.

“Go with your mamae, Tamlen,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth, but when she glanced down, he was not there. Neither was the river, or Ise. Just the mud, and a hole, and a shovel. It was one of the holes she’d dug for planting the trees for her clan, her shovel scraping over rock in the dark of the night. She’d planted the tree for Tamlen in a hole like this one. Her hands shook as she turned away slowly.

He’d reached the edge of the trees, only a few paces away, and she waited as he looked up and his violet-blue eyes met hers. 

“Fen’Harel.” The name fell heavy from her lips and landed between them like a stone. 

His brows flinched, almost imperceptibly. “Solas,” he insisted quietly.

He was not in the armor he’d worn the last time they met, but in his familiar Skyhold clothes - simple wool trousers and a cream sweater. The one with a small hole at the neck that she’d mended. Her eyes flicked to the spot and the stitches were small, but they were there, imagined into being in the Fade. He’d chosen to appear like this and it enraged her. She wished he had come plated in metal and wrapped in the mantle of the wolf. Fen’Harel. Not Solas. 

Not Solas who had carried her to her room when she’d collapsed after planting trees for her clan one night. Not Solas, who had found her even after she had ordered everyone away from the grove. Not Solas, who had held her until dawn, and wiped tears from her bare face, and witnessed her shattering grief, as she sobbed and muffled her screams into his shoulder. 

_ Let it be Fen’Harel who wants to destroy the world. Not Solas. Let them be separate. _But she knew they were not. He was Solas. And he was Fen’Harel. And his choices could not be distanced by his title.

As they regarded each other, she searched his face for some sign of why he had come, but his expression was familiar and unreadable at the same time. 

“What do you want?” Her voice was a whisper.

He took a step forward and she moved back, her foot slipping on the edge of the hole. He held his hand out, like he was calming a panicked animal, and she supposed she must look similarly on edge, about to bolt.

“Forgive me,” he said, speaking as quietly as she did. “It is an entirely selfish intrusion. I simply wished to see you.”

Her throat grew tight and she held his gaze, suspecting that like all things with him, the answer was not that straightforward. 

“And now you have seen me.” She looked down at her arm, still whole and undamaged in the Fade, and at her thigh that had no wound. “An illusion of me anyway. Which I suppose is how I knew you.” 

She was suddenly blindingly bitter at the lies that had stacked up between them, at his untouchable magic that had changed her, ripped everything from her, even herself. She wanted to ask him how he had done it. How he had kept it all hidden for so long, with everything they’d shared.

His hand fell back by his side. “Even illusions have their truths.” He looked like he was about to say more, then shook his head slightly and when he spoke again, his voice was firmer. “I heard you were captured at Andruil’s temple.” 

She worked to keep her face neutral. Captured. So Abelas had spoken to Solas. It was likely he had been reporting the whole time. In fact, it was likely that he had been following orders for everything that had passed between them, a way to gain her trust and infiltrate her ranks. And it had likely worked even better than intended. _ I know how to pace myself, molain_. 

Before finding the orb had changed his plans. 

What a fool she had been. Again. Always. Her anger at Solas turned inward, a rope around her chest, a constricting noose drawing tighter.

“You had me _ followed _ to Andruil’s temple.”

Solas shifted his weight, seeming to want to step forward again, but holding himself back. “I was concerned for your safety.”

“My safety? You must know how ironic that sounds, coming from you.”

He had the grace to look away for a moment before replying. “Andruil and her followers are cruel. And relentless. They will not stop if they have been wronged.” His brows drew together slightly as he regarded her. “Are you being pursued?”

Any pursuit would have stopped when Abelas took the orb and he must know that. She bit back a retort about only being pursued by the mistakes of her past and settled for monosyllabic honesty instead, more than he deserved.

“No.”

“Going there alone seemed… rash. Even for you. You could have been tortured and their weapons are varied and vicious.” His tone was disapproving, whether directed at her actions or their methods, she wasn’t sure. He frowned, and studied her for a long moment. “Are you safe? Did they harm you?” A note of something like tenderness had crept into his voice.

He was driving at something but she wasn’t sure what. Wanting to make sure she was away from Skyhold if he had something planned? Corroborating information from Abelas?

“I’m fine,” she lied, and he probably knew it, but she didn’t care. “Thank you for your heartfelt concern.” 

She wondered how much Solas had told Abelas about her. Did he tell him about her favorite foods, or her interest in history, or what she liked in bed? She curled her fingers into fists as her stomach rolled at the idea and she thought she might be sick, wondering faintly what that would be like in the Fade. 

“I have never wanted you to suffer needlessly.”

She gulped a breath, fighting down her nausea. “I _ am _ going to suffer. The whole _ world _ is going to suffer. What does it matter if I suffer now or at the end?” 

And then she realized, fear stabbing low in her gut - that maybe this was the end. Abelas had brought him the orb. And now Solas had everything he needed to drop the Veil. It was over before they’d even had a chance.

Her breath came faster, though there was no need to breathe here at all. “Is that why you’ve come? To say goodbye?” Her heel slid further into the hole behind her - maybe not a grave from the past after all, but a new one, one she’d dug for herself - and she startled, trying to fight down her rising panic. “We were supposed to have more time. You told me we’d have more time!” Her voice cracked on the last word and he stepped forward, his brow furrowed in concern. 

“Don’t!” She put her hand up, an unintentional echo of the posture she used for sealing rifts. “You don’t have to do it like this. You don’t have to decide the fate of the entire world.” She tried to collect her thoughts, find the words she’d never been able to find before, but they remained elusive. She talked anyway, the only real strategy she had against him. “You… you’ve seen the world make the same mistakes over and over. You’ve started rebellions. You know how to lead. You have more power than anyone else in Thedas. Help _ fix _ things here.” 

“Nepenthe.” His voice was quiet and serious and her eyes burned and she wished he had not said her name. “I cannot give you the answer you want.” He did not look away from her face, and it made it worse.

“Then at least help us have a better chance of surviving. There has to be a different way.” Her throat worked around the words.

Grief and regret etched themselves into the corners of his mouth. “I hope you can find it.” 

Nepenthe scoffed, a sound that nearly wavered into a sob. “You have answers to questions I don’t even know to ask. And even if I did ask them, you’d just lie to me.”

She thought of the red lyrium, the seals on the blight, the energy of the Veil, the mage children. There must be other tactics to try while he stood before her. 

“I have told you the truth, as much as I can.”

She was running low on anger and false bravery. “It was never about what you said, but what you didn’t. And it will cost us all. Even you.” Her eyes slid away from his face, toward the shovel at her feet, as she tried desperately to think of a way to get him to reveal something. He followed her gaze and seemed to realize the memory he had entered.

“_Ir abelas_,” [I’m sorry] he breathed after a moment. “I will go.” He started to walk back into the trees, and an image flashed in her mind of a clearing like this one. It had been a spring evening, when the air had cooled off but the ground was still warm and soft with the growth of new grass. He’d been testing the stave she had gifted him, sending out gossamer spells that shimmered in the air and filled the clearing with tiny sparkling globes. They had lain on the ground and watched the lights like stars, his hand warm in hers.

“Solas.” She bit the inside of her lip and waited until he turned around. Waited until his familiar eyes met hers, knowing she was going to ask the question and already not wanting the answer. “Did you need the staff?” 

His mouth pulled into a line, close to a smile, but not. “I treasured it for what it represented.”

She shut her eyes as he turned away again, too empty even to cry.

It was quiet in the forest of her dreams and she thought he had gone, when he spoke again, his voice soft and low. “Nepenthe. There is still time.”

And then the hollow space inside her filled, and the tears came behind closed eyes.

* * *

It was early enough that Redcliffe was still quiet. Nepenthe limped down the damp street, her footsteps scrapping over uneven cobblestones, as she passed shuttered storefronts and dark windows. At the bottom of the hill, two chantry sisters crossed the road, likely on their way to sunrise service, and Nepenthe paused, sliding into a doorway and pulling her cloak closer around her. Her business was not with them and she did not want to be recognized. Her image had appeared on enough missives passed around the chantry that it was possible. But they did not look up the road, and Nepenthe began moving again as they skirted around the statue of the Hero of Ferelden.

Another monument she’d thought little about until she realized people might do the same for her. Not her, the Inquisitor. But to her knowledge, nothing had been erected in Redcliffe. No, wait - Josie had mentioned something after all - a project that had been started and then abandoned when they ran out of funding. Some Ferelden noble had tried to wheedle an exorbitant sum from the Inquisition to finish it. Or more likely, line his pockets while it was shoddily completed. Or delayed indefinitely once popular opinion had shifted. 

And they didn’t even know the half of it - that she’d had the true threat under her nose - no, worse, between her thighs - the whole time. And that all of them were now living on borrowed time. 

_ Nepenthe. There is still time. _

Damn him. _ Damn him. _

Her eyes pricked with tears and she looked skyward, blinking, willing them not to fall. The ringing came back in her ears then, a welcome distraction. Only this time it sounded like faint whispering under a discordant buzzing. Maybe a side effect of the potion, or her exhaustion. She shuddered and blew out her breath. It would soon pass. 

Nepenthe reached the bottom of the hill, where mist rose off the lake and crept past fishermen stowing the last of their gear into wooden boats, the dull slap of waves on their hulls and the creak of dock lines echoing in the silence. It’d be early for anyone traveling, but she could at least make her way to the merchant stores and see who passed by. The mail cart may be her best bet for travelling north. 

_ Fenedhis_. Why couldn't there be a faster way?

As she came around a corner, she was surprised to find a woman adjusting a tarp over a wagon packed high with sacks, two horses already harnessed and desultorily flicking their tails at flies. A rig like that wasn’t heading to a local market - she might be in luck if she had enough coin left to bargain with. Which might need to be considerably more than if she was human. 

The woman, likely in her fifties with a mass of curly black hair streaked with gray, was bent over tying a knot. Her skirts were layered against the cold, clearly of a fine wool though patched in places, and her bodice was utilitarian cotton, but dyed deep yellow and edged with a rich orange-red silk. It reminded Nepenthe of the wild marigolds that had grown in the Free Marches. A difficult dye shade to achieve - it was always the color that fetched the highest price in Ansberg. 

But she didn’t want to think about marigolds she’d never see again, or linen thread she’d never dye again.

“Good morning. Are you travelling far?” Nepenthe asked, limping alongside the wagon. This close, the smell of wool was unmistakable, and the sacks were nearly bursting with it.

The woman finished pulling the rope tight and straightened, looking Nepenthe up and down. It wasn’t hard to imagine how rough she must appear, and she waited for the insult to come - something biting about how all rabbit-ears were half wild and dirty.

Instead, the merchant looked vaguely concerned. “You alright, love?” she asked, her accent not quite placable. Maybe Antivan, worn by time and distance.

“I’m looking to get passage north.”

The woman raised her eyebrows.

“I have my own meals. And I can pay." 

“You running from something?” The merchant crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the side of the wagon.

Nepenthe shook her head wearily. “Just my own mistakes.”

That earned her a wry smile and a snorted laugh. “Aren’t we all? Where you trying to get to then?” 

“Haven.” It was off the Imperial highway, but not so far as Skyhold, much more likely that she could arrange a ride there. “Or as close as I can get.” She could wait for the supply wagons in Haven, or ask a favor. For better or worse, she was still known there and goodwill for the Inquisition remained high. Only a few more days and she would be… not home. But back. She would be back.

Nepenthe’s leg twinged, a bolt of pain shooting down toward her ankle and she quickly shifted her weight, grimacing. It didn’t go unnoticed by the other woman. She pursed her lips, frowning, then gestured to the end of the wagon. “Go on, sit. Let me talk to my wife.”

With a rustle of her long skirts, she turned away and entered a small house across the street. 

Nepenthe tried to clean the dirt from under her nails. It wasn't long before she came out again, probably not a good sign. Another human woman was behind her, of a similar age, carrying traveling bags. They locked the door before crossing the street again. 

The new woman put the bags on the front seat of the wagon then came back. “I’m Kara,” she said, sticking out her hand, large and calloused, decorated with several intricate gold rings. “That’s Malle. 

“Nepenthe,” she said, as they shook. 

“We’re going to Jader for the trade fair,” Kara continued, “but heading through Dwarfson’s Pass takes us near enough to Haven. We can get you there, so long as you promise there’s no trouble.”

Nepenthe nearly laughed, then fought the urge down. “I’ll be an easy passenger, I promise. I just need to send a raven before we leave town.”

As they worked out the details for compensation, which surprisingly did not seem to have an elf tax added onto it, she was once again grateful for Josie’s foresight in insisting she take extra coin. Malle shifted some of the sacks to make a spot for Nepenthe to sit in, deep enough that she could stretch out her legs. After she climbed in though, she found it was more comfortable to lay back, with the tarp a few inches over her head. 

The wagon lurched forward and bumped down the street, coming to a stop at the center of town by the rookery. Nepenthe spoke to the ravenmaster at the window, paying him the silver to send the raven and then waiting until he’d placed the necessary supplies on the counter and turned away before making sure her sleeve was pulled down. She awkwardly held the paper in place with her forearm, then paused with the nib of the quill held over the parchment. What could she possibly write? How could she explain what she’d done? What was coming? 

She needed to be brief and practical. They would discuss everything once she was back. 

_ Leaving Redcliffe for Haven then Skyhold. Injured leg. Managing. Buddy stabled in Southfording. _

She made her rune, and was about to set the ink, when she stopped. She thought of her friends’ faces - the way Bull threw his head back to laugh, the expressions Sera made behind nobles’ backs, Dorian’s quiet smile. All of them trusting her. And how that had turned out.

_ I hope you find a way. _

She sucked in a ragged breath and scrawled in the margin, her handwriting even shakier than usual: _ I’m sorry. _

The horses stamped their feet on the cobblestones behind her, impatient. She slid the parchment to the ravenmaster and watched as he rolled it with nimble fingers and put it into a tiny tube, ready to be attached to the raven’s leg.

After they left the rookery, the wagon climbed at a good pace out of the valley and along the mountain road, the roofs of Redcliffe dwindling to patches of grey and brown as they went higher. A strange feeling jolted through her that they were traveling in the wrong direction, but this was the correct way to Dwarfson’s pass - she’d come this way with the Inquisition before. It was the best route to Haven. She adjusted her pack and settled back, trying to ignore the feeling.

The valley spread out behind the wagon and the sunshine was beginning to burn off the mist over farms and sheep fields. She wondered where Solas was now, and Abelas. Whether they were watching the sun rise and celebrating a mission that had succeeded beyond their wildest expectations. Whether Abelas was boasting of how quickly he was able to gain her trust. Whether he was thinking of her at all, and not already focused on his next task. On his next duty. 

Her eyes were dry and scratchy, like she'd been crying too much, and she fought the urge to close them - the women seemed like trustworthy merchants, but she hadn’t exactly been the best judge of character lately, and she didn’t want to be taken unawares. Or enter the Fade again right now either. Maybe there was some technique she could learn to close off her mind.

The motion of the wagon was making her drowsy though, and the wool was warm, as was the sun as it rose above the mountains and shone on the tarp - in fact, all of her was slightly overheated and her head was throbbing and it would probably be okay to close her eyes, just for a little while.

* * *

It was dark, and she was digging again. This time with her hands, and there was something she needed to reach, but it was deeper. Much deeper. It would take a long time, and she was tired, but she could keep going. Flickering torchlight illuminated crumbling mosaic tiles around the edges of the hole, and she recognized it as the cell floor in Andruil’s temple where she had been imprisoned with Abelas. She pressed the heel of her hand against the jagged edge and broke pieces off, watching them slide down into the dirt. She wondered how much of that capture had been contrived.

“Nepenthe.” A voice from behind her, ragged, laced with relief. 

She stilled. His voice, the same deep tone that had affected her from his first word if she was honest. 

_ Venavis. _

“No. No.” She shook her head sharply. “I have nothing to say to you. Leave me alone. Both of you, just leave me alone.” Her voice sounded strange, flat, even to her ears. 

When there was no answer, she wondered if she’d imagined it, and whipped her head around. But he was there, standing by the stone wall in his Sentinel armor, an expression on his face to match his name. He looked exhausted, even here. The edges of her dream seemed to harden and become more solid as he did something to the Fade, and then in one stride Abelas closed the distance between them and knelt by her side. She shifted away, watching him warily. 

“Who else won’t leave you alone?” he asked slowly, his eyes flicking over her face. She turned away in disgust to begin digging again, raking her fingers through the earth, grasping handfuls of it, soil caking under her nails. It felt good to dig.

“Who, Nepenthe?” he asked again with greater urgency, trying to catch her eye again.

“Your boss,” she snapped, and he drew back, confused.

“Fen’Harel came to you?” He seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment. “Why?”

She clenched her fists in the dirt. “Why are _ you _ here?” she ground out. “Have you come to gloat? Or stall me? What did you and Solas decide this time?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him watching her and she fought back the urge to scream. 

“I did not go to him,” he said after a long moment, and there was a sincerity in his tone that was almost believable.

Nepenthe forced herself to open her hands and settle back onto her heels, wiping her palms off on her thighs as she did so. “Was there a change of plans? Is it beneficial to have a spy by my side after all?” It was easier not to look at him, but she needed to see his reaction. To see for herself if it was true. She tilted her chin up to meet his eyes before she spoke with all the venom she could manage. “What did he tell you to do?”

Something flickered in his golden eyes - understanding maybe, or sadness - and the tension drained out of his shoulders. “No. No, Nepenthe. It was never like that. My actions were my own. All of them.”

Her throat ached but she managed to respond levelly. “I don’t believe you.”

“I gave you my word I would not lie to you.” He held her gaze as the air shifted and something like an invisible ripple moved around him. It flowed out and when it reached her, there was a swirl of confusing sensations. Nepenthe inhaled sharply as emotions that were not her own rushed through her. Regret, worry, hope, admiration - other feelings as well, too complex and layered to name. Their feelings overlapped, mingled. Her throat tightened at the pain and uncertainty - his and hers in equal measure. And _oh,_ this was intimate with his eyes locked on hers. 

She took a shaky breath as his emotions drew back, leaving her with only her own entirely too confusing ones. But she knew - he was telling the truth. 

He looked slightly the worse for wear - lips parted and pupils blown wide - not with desire she thought, but with something more akin to fear. 

“What did you do?”

“I lowered my... barrier, I suppose you could call it. The mental shields that keep my emotions contained in the Fade.”

_ That _ was new information. “I’m assuming that since I’ve never tried to keep any mental shields in place, you’re able to sense what I’m feeling?”

A faint line appeared between his brows. “Yes,” he admitted. “To a certain extent. Emotions are always complex though and some remain unnamed even here.”

She closed her eyes. _ Fenedhis. _“Oh."

“You are not happy about that.”

She shot him a look. “Sensed that, did you? It puts me at a disadvantage." She sighed, glancing toward the hole again. It wasn’t nearly deep enough. "Maybe we should continue this in the waking world.” She started to get to her feet and he stopped her with a gesture.

“Wait. There may not be time and I need to speak to you. In the interest of fair play, I will drop mine. Is that agreeable?”

She nodded warily and sat down as the aura of his emotions came back again. This time it was predominately apprehension, a raw vulnerability that wasn’t at all visible in the hard set of his face.

Fuck. What in the Void was she unintentionally revealing to him? 

What had she unintentionally revealed to Solas? 

No, she shouldn’t think about him. 

_ He can sense your emotions, not your thoughts, you fool._

She met Abelas’s gaze again and held it just a moment too long before she looked away, heart beating too fast, trying to get the feel for what was essentially a new way of communication. 

“Has anything changed with your leg?” 

It was not a question she was expecting and it startled her into answering. “No, not really.” 

Had Solas asked about her leg too? Or just whether she was injured? With a huff, she leaned forward and began digging again. She needed to focus on the task at hand and the hole was only as deep as her elbows - a shovel would be helpful here. As she had the thought, she looked to her left and there were two at the edge of the shadows. She stood up and grabbed one so she could work more quickly.

“Here,” she said, handing the other to Abelas. “This will go faster if you help.” 

He gave her a strange look, confusion and concern radiating off him, but he took the shovel and got to his feet. “Nothing has changed?”

She remembered waking up in the aravel, warm in the rumpled blanket of the bedroll they’d shared, electric with the memory of his body between her legs, hopeful that he’d gone for breakfast. With a satisfying thud, she slammed the shovel into the dirt. “I’d say a great deal has changed since the other night.”

Remorse, guilt, uncertainty - the new impressions blooming through her consciousness, heavily laced with an undercurrent of desire. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one remembering what had happened between them. Shit. He was probably getting just as much of a read on the direction of her thoughts. 

“So you didn’t go to him,” she interjected quickly. “What _ are _ you planning to do with the orb then?” She dug out another shovelful and realized he was still leaning on his shovel. She caught his eye and tipped her head toward the hole. With a guarded expression, and a flash of unease that echoed around her, he began digging and she breathed a sigh of relief. It already felt better to be making more progress.

“There is a more pressing concern.”

“More pressing than an orb?” 

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. The Sentinels were using _ assanen an’banal_.” 

At her confused expression, he paused. “Arrows of the…” His lips moved silently then he swore in frustration. “What do you call the empty place again? Where things are unmade? We talked about it. It is deep underground.”

He hadn’t typically forgotten translations into Common, a skill she’d wanted to ask him about, but exhaustion and a piercing anxiety were bleeding through his aura. “The Wellspring? Oh, no - you mean the Void?” 

“Yes, the Void, thank you. They had arrows of the Void. They...” He stopped digging and gripped the handle of his shovel. “They contain a form of blight magic. Part of Andruil’s _ vir’banalras_.”

“I’ve never heard of the _ vir’banalras_.”

“Then I am glad that particular piece of our history has been lost. _ Vir’banalras _ was the way of shadow. Purpose through sacrifice.” His voice was low and he spoke quickly, like he wanted to get it over with, or like they might run out of time. “It was how Andruil acquired more slaves for her corrupted lyrium mines. After the children of the stone were sundered, she found another way - blight magic that bound elves to her will and compelled them to mine the tainted lyrium. They were twisted, their minds were broken...” 

He fumbled for his words and the fear radiating off him sent a chill through her as she dumped another pile of dirt by the edge of the hole. “Nepenthe, stop digging!” He grabbed her hand, guiding her shovel blade to the ground.

She looked at him in surprise, then down at their hands. She should move hers. He may not have gone to Solas yet, but there were still layers of unanswered questions between them.

“Do you understand what I am saying?” he asked with a gentleness that was at odds with the alarm spiking through his aura. “The arrow in your leg contained blight magic. It is infecting you. If we do nothing, you will be bound and the call of the tainted lyrium will take over your mind.”

She pulled her hand back. “But we took the arrow out and the wound is healing. The tonic is helping. Maybe it didn’t work.” 

He indicated the hole. “What are you digging for?”

Nepenthe looked down into the soft dirt and the nagging feeling returned - go deeper, deeper, deeper. She imagined she could see the hole stretching down into the dark roots of the world, something just out of sight that she needed to reach. The walls around them shivered in her peripheral vision and the flames guttered in their sconces. Dread coiled tight in her gut - the fear of the unknown and the inevitable. 

“I'm ... not sure,” she said, an edge of panic creeping in. The fevers. The scratching voices underneath the ringing in her ears. The way her magic seemed to drain her each time she used it. She found his eyes again, trying to think amid the emotions swirling around them that were growing more complex by the minute. “I don’t know.”

Nepenthe pushed the shovel away from her and it dissolved into smoke before it hit the ground. With a shudder, she wiped her hand on her trousers. “Ok. Ok. You said ‘if we do nothing’ - what other options are there?”

With a rueful tilt of his head, his aura withdrew slightly and he spoke cautiously. “Fen’Harel may be the best option for removing the infection.”

“No.”

“Nepenthe, I understand that-”

“No. I’ll find another way.”

His jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth and he rubbed his chin. “It may not be so simple.”

“I’m not going to him, Abelas.” 

He studied her, and she wasn’t sure what exactly he was able to sense in her aura but after a long moment he sighed and seemed to accept that she wasn’t going to budge on this. “Then... I may be able to help. At least to buy more time.”

“And those are my only options? Him or you?” She suppressed a wince as she realized how that sounded and one glance at his face told her he hadn’t missed the alternate meaning either. 

He shrugged noncommittally. “Unless you know of someone else with experience eradicating ancient blight magic?”

She swore under her breath and began to pace the length of the cell. Two days ago and she wouldn’t have hesitated to let him heal this. Or try to heal it anyway. Now there was the yawning divide of duty and distrust and unanswered questions between them again. And the subtly terrifying realization that she was emotionally invested enough that his leaving _ hurt. _She knew she couldn’t entirely blame him. He’d made no promises. Had never outright made a choice. Kaffas, she’d have likely done the same if their positions were reversed. But still. He’d gone, and it had hurt, and now he was offering to help her. But at what cost?

“Are you going to be reporting to him still?” 

He ran a hand up into his hair and pulled at the top of his braid, clearly uncomfortable with the question. “That is complicated. For now, I may have to, but not about specifics.” 

The stirrings of another idea flitted through her mind, the potential for eyes inside Solas’s organization, but she pushed it aside. He’d have to make that choice for himself and now was not the time to discuss it.

She stopped pacing and studied him. The flickering light reminded her of the fire at the Dalish camp - it cast shadows along his throat and threw his jawline into sharp relief. Somewhere by his ear was the spot she’d kissed that had gotten such a reaction.

“You have what you need. Why come back?”

He watched her for a long moment. “You know why.” His voice was deep, certain, and it sent a thrill straight through her. 

Emotions shifted and wrapped around her and she didn’t even want to try to name them, unsure where his ended and hers began. An oscillating wave, tingling along her skin.

He was coiled tight with tension and she wondered what it would be like if he let go. If he pressed her back to the wall, his body solid and strong against hers. If he slid his hands under her thighs and picked her up to wrap her legs around his hips - no injury, no missing hand to complicate things. Just his breath on her lips, desperate kisses, hard and hungry, the shift of his muscles under her hands. 

_ Now _ it was desire that had blown his pupils wide, and she’d have known that even without the thrum of want through his aura. It amplified her own, a feedback loop that matched up the vibrations of their auras, a current that overwhelmed her mind. 

Maybe he would remove their clothes with a thought, press her body flush to his, both of them ready, wanting. A lift, an adjustment, a gasped affirmation as he entered her, slow and controlled. She tried to bite back a panted breath and only half succeeded. 

“Molain.” His voice was clipped, fraying at the edges, and she noticed he hadn’t used her full name for the first time since they’d met here. 

The edges of the dream flickered. Either his control over whatever he’d done to shield them was slipping or she was waking up. They were running out of time, and since she had no idea how they were finding each other in the Fade, this may be their last chance to talk.

She pulled at the cuff in her ear and began to pace. “Alright. Where are you?”

“Still some hours away from the Dalish camp.”

_“Fenedhis,_” she hissed between clenched teeth.

He banged a fist back against the wall. “You’re not there. Where are you?”

She thought quickly. Trying to meet up in a traveling merchant's wagon might be difficult but there was the safehouse Leliana had mentioned. That was south of Haven and might be reachable by tomorrow morning. It would have supplies and would provide a base for a healing attempt.

She concentrated on recalling what the terrain looked like, landmarks, how he’d be able to find it, pulling from her memory to hopefully form it in the Fade. When she looked down, there was a map stretching across the floor and she sighed in relief. 

With a quick explanation of where the Dalish camp had been and where she was going, she showed him the location of the cabin.

“How soon can you get there?”

He rubbed his lip. “Tomorrow.”

“On foot? That’s not possible.”

“Maybe not for some, nevertheless, I will see you there tomorrow.” 

Her stomach did a strange flip, and she wished it had not. 

The edges of the dream flickered again, light flashing between the cracks of the stone walls. 

He noticed it as well and stepped closer. “Nepenthe. Stay alert. Travel as fast as you can. Andruil’s Sentinels are still out there. There may have been a set back for them, but they can track the blight magic in your body.”

It hadn’t been the orb they were sensing then. She looked up at him, fearful, quickly recalculating the plan. She’d be exposing Malle and Kara to this threat. She’d have to leave and find another way to the cabin. It would work as a base to prepare for attack as well - as long as she could reach it.

“Tomorrow,” she promised with more confidence than she felt. As the dream began to fray, he brought his hand to her face, just grazing her cheek with his thumb before everything dissolved and she awoke in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! How many complicated elf conversations can I work into one chapter? What is Solas up to? How much can you deny your feelings while sitting in feelings soup?  
Thanks for coming with me on that ride. As always, your comments give me life - thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> Also, I have been working on digital art and painted a [picture of Nepenthe](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/post/622219993559531520/i-finally-finished-her-nepenthe-why-cant) as I picture her post-trespasser. 
> 
> Thank you to my beautiful beta TheLittlestFische and to friendos FaerieAvalon and HumblePeasant for feedback and discussions :)


	23. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously on: Nepenthe thought Ableas had taken the orb to Solas, Solas then showed up in the Fade, tense conversations ensued. Nepenthe found merchants traveling from Redcliffe past Haven and got a ride. Then Abelas showed up in the Fade, more tense conversations ensued and he told Nepenthe about the blight magic and that Andruil's Sentinels could still track her. They made a plan to meet at a cabin near Haven so he could try to heal her.

Nepenthe’s eyes snapped open and she sat up with a jerk. Before she’d raised herself more than a few inches, there was some kind of rough material pressing against her face. She flung herself back and pushed her arms up, ready to lash out with a spell, but the cloth moved and the scent of wool hit her nose. 

She was still lying in the back of the wagon under the tarp. 

Only it was no longer moving. And it was dark. When she lifted her head again more cautiously, she could see that a fire was flickering somewhere nearby, casting just enough light to illuminate a few feet of the packed dirt road before the track was swallowed into darkness. 

She rubbed her face blearily. How long had she been asleep? 

How was she supposed to process everything Abelas had told her?

She flopped back down against the wool sacks and brought her hand in front of her face. Dirty fingernails. Callouses. Lines in her palm. And somewhere inside her - blight magic.

How did it work? Was it in her blood? Or could she cut it out - remove it like another part of herself that was broken? And what if Abelas couldn’t heal it, would she have to go to Solas? Would he even heal her? She closed her fingers into a fist and cut off the thought.

The feverish feeling she’d had earlier had diminished. Maybe the tonic was helping after all. Even if it was only healing the wound itself, and not treating whatever else was now in her body, it couldn’t hurt to keep taking it. She took it out of her pack, uncorked it with her teeth and took two extremely generous swallows. _ Close enough. _With it safely secured back in her pack, she moved to the end of the wagon. 

Malle and Kara were snuggled together under a blanket, cooking dinner over a standing log fire a few meters off the side of the road. Beyond, their tent was erected next to a large boulder and the horses were tethered to the pine trees next to it, their eyes shining soft and ghostly in the darkness.

The merchants looked up as she slid off the wagon. 

Malle raised her eyebrows. “Ah, good - you’re up! Thought we’d have to make a detour to the healer-”

“Or the undertaker,” Kara muttered and Malle elbowed her in the side.

“To the _ healer_, if we didn’t see you soon.”

Nepenthe was lightheaded after the change in position - _ just need food and water _\- and she put out her hand to steady herself on the wagon. “I’m alright. I hadn’t slept much the last few days. But I’m feeling better now.” She blinked and glanced around, but the fire had ruined her night vision. It was impossible to see what lay beyond the ring of light. Antlered Sentinels could easily be creeping closer, their eyes glowing red in the shadows. She pushed down her fear. “Where are we?”

Kara gave Malle a pointed look. “Would you care to answer that one, love?”

Malle made a face but was smiling ruefully when she turned back to Nepenthe. “We are _ somewhere _ between the Buxton Inn and the Wentbridge Inn.”

“Both of which have very pleasant hot pies,” Kara interjected.

Malle rolled her eyes. “Yes. Lovely hot pies.” 

“And good ale. And comfortable beds,” Kara said.

“Yes, _ tesoro mio_. I know.”

“And yet we are here,” Kara grumbled, but with no real malice. “With _ no _ pleasant hot pies, and _ no _ ale, and _ no _ comfortable beds, because…” She drew out the last word.

“Because _ I _insisted we could make it to Wentbridge before dark.” Malle pursed her lips. “And we didn’t.”

Nepenthe frowned. Wentbridge was the town where the road to Haven intersected the Imperial highway. “We’ve already made it to Wentbridge?”

“We _ almost _made it to Wentbridge,” Kara corrected and Malle made an entreating gesture. “But yes, the roads were dry as soon as we got into the pass and we made excellent time. I reckon we should have stopped at Buxton while we were ahead but-”

“Yes, yes.” Malle waved her hand in the air then put her arm around Kara and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I’ve ruined tradition and I will suffer greatly for it and I will buy you all the hot pies tomorrow.”

Kara let herself be pulled into Malle’s embrace. “_All _ the hot pies.”

“So many hot pies the wagon will groan under the weight of hot pies.” Malle gestured expansively and Kara laughed, a warm throaty sound. 

While Kara and Malle talked, Nepenthe scanned the darkness - she needed to figure out how she was going to get to the cabin.

“Speaking of food, we have sausage and beans.” Kara pointed toward the pan and then Nepenthe, a silent invitation.

“No, I’ll be alright. I have something.” 

Kara’s eyes cut to her arm, where she’d unconsciously been rubbing her elbow, and Nepenthe dropped her hand.

“Not as good as hot pies,” Kara continued, like she hadn’t heard Nepenthe’s response, “but we made too much. Don’t want it to go to waste. It’d be a kindness for you to share.”

It was like they knew. Knew that she’d been running on borrowed time and was stretched as thin as an old cloth, ready to tear at the seams. Nepenthe froze, hesitating to accept a kindness she had not expected, and then her stomach growled audibly. 

Kara snorted and reached for the ladle. “Well, your stomach has some sense anyway.” 

“Alright, thank you. It smells good.” Nepenthe made a mental note to add in some extra coppers for the meal. “I’m just going to freshen up first.” She jerked her head toward the trees. She could set wards while she figured out her next plan. The horses watched her with interest as she approached them, then snuffled quietly when she gave them nothing.

She crept further into the pines, the carpet of needles cushioning her footsteps. She stopped and listened. The last of the night insects trilled their reedy songs, perhaps a note of desperation in their tune, a final crescendo before they were silenced until spring. The boughs of the pines rustled fitfully. But otherwise it was quiet. 

As quiet as the invisible footprints of a Sentinel assassin.

Nepenthe shivered and glanced back toward the fire. Malle and Kara weren't visible, but their quiet laughter and low conversation carried on the breeze. Her stomach twisted at their love shared wordlessly, effortlessly. It was something rare. Something they deserved to keep without the Veil coming down and ripping their lives away.

She kept moving through the pines. Once more into the darkness alone.

_ You know why. _

He’d looked so serious and so tired. He’d left, but he was coming back. He'd told the truth about not taking the orb to Solas, not even contacting him. Why? _You know why._ It would never be that simple, but she was still filled with a restless, tingling anticipation, wishing she could both see him right now and delay it indefinitely. Her heart thudded traitorously and she tried to push his voice out of her mind. 

She angled her body to hide the ambient light of her spellwork and began to set the wards. A series of looping marks, glowing faintly blue set the first glyph, a fence post of sorts for the spell. As the magic faded, she moved silently toward the next location. 

Outside the ring of firelight, the night was clear and bright and the twin moons, lleua and Rund’falon, shone like coins, a faint, shimmering halo of ice crystals around each of them. It was a sign that weather was coming, likely snow. Both moons were just past full, rising in tandem. A rare enough occurrence that it was considered a portent according to Dalish legend - a sign of a convergence, an unexpected encounter, or a great change. 

_ Or maybe all three. _She reached the road, and with a quick glance in either direction, dashed across it to continue setting the wards in a wide circle around the camp. 

She picked her way down a grassy embankment and came to an abrupt halt. She’d _ run _ across the road. She put her weight on her wounded leg. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had before. Perhaps the tonic and resting it for a couple days while she traveled in wagons had helped.

Oh, this changed things. If her leg was healed enough that she could move more quickly, Haven was on the edge of being walkable. She bent down to quickly set another glyph. It depended a little on how close they were to Wentbridge, but she’d be able to walk on the roads without being bothered - a luxury that daylight wouldn’t provide - and she could cover ground much faster than if she had to cut through the woods. If she left soon and walked all night, it would probably put her to the cabin at roughly the same time as the wagon would have anyway. More importantly, it would remove the threat of attack from Malle and Kara. 

Probably. There’d been no time to ask Abelas how the tracking worked. Shit. Was it like a beacon that Andruil’s sentinels could somehow sense? Or was it like a trail - a magical signature they could track to its source, like a hawk hunting a mouse?

Maybe she could work something into the wards - a barrier of sorts that would offer a veneer of protection in case it was the latter. 

She rushed to finish her loop and once it was complete, she could feel all of the glyphs, like anchor points pulling at the surrounding magic. She visualized the threads of magic drifting towards each glyph and imagined picking them up. They felt slippery, loose in her mind and she frowned as she pulled them towards each other, drawing them up towards the center of a dome and weaving them together. A bundle slipped through her focus and snapped back down to the glyph and she winced. This was usually much easier - it was like there was an interference, something itching in her brain that was interrupting her spellwork. She ground her teeth. The blight magic. _ Fenedhis_. Another ancient elvhen magic wreaking havoc in her body. She was sure there was some explanation for it, but at the moment, she just needed this to work. 

With a steadying breath she tried again, pulling, slowly pulling, twisting the threads together. _Please work._ The threads twined, trembling with her effort, and the ringing in her ears came back, a jarring discordance. She clenched her jaw, her brow furrowed in concentration. Hissed words echoed in her mind, jagged and painful. _Tuatha em'an._ _Gara bre'durgalas._ The Elvhen was unfamiliar, but the compulsion was clear - go deeper. 

The threads slipped and snapped back again and she snarled a curse under her breath. 

Maybe this was the wrong approach. How had Abelas instructed her when she dispelled the barrier? _ Let your magic come from here, _he’d said, his fingers pressing into the center of her back. She took a deep breath.

_Tuatha em'an._ _Gara bre'durgalas._

The whispers pulled at her as she worked to recreate what she’d done at the temple, focusing on her breathing, the vibrations of the magic. She started to reach for the glyphs again and the discordance became a screech, a pain lancing through her head and settling behind her eyes, prickling like needles. She gasped, a tear leaking from the corner of her eye and her vision swam. This way was worse. Much worse. She released the magic and steadied herself on a trunk, breathing hard.

She pressed her fingers into her temple and tried her way again. Again, grasping the threads. Again, pulling them together. _ Please, please, please. _ It was working. The wards were nearly linked and she quickly worked along the strongest threads, weaving in a barrier spell. It wouldn’t last as long as the wards, but it would give her enough time to get away and leave Malle and Kara slightly safer. The threads began to whine, slipping again. _ No, no, no. _ With a hissed exhale, she yanked the threads toward each other and they snapped into place with a gentle hum, so at odds with the other dissonance. 

She slumped to the ground, gulping air and waiting for the pain and dizziness to subside. Fuzzily, she blinked her eyes, looking down at her hand in the pine needles, outlined in blue by the moonlight. Her fingers were moving, scratching into the dirt, seemingly of their own accord. With a choked whimper, she snatched her hand away and shook it out, then clamped it under her arm. She just needed to get to the cabin. 

But if the Sentinels attacked while she was on the road alone, her magic was worse than useless - it was a liability. It must be something built into the blight magic - hard to fight against it if you couldn’t use your own power. 

It took a few more minutes before she was recovered enough to return. As she approached the fire, the familiar sound of knitting greeted her, as well as the merchants debating how to recreate the color of the marigold silk on Malle’s bodice. 

“The black market may still be our best bet.” 

“Not worth it love," Malle said. “We'd spend as much getting the Vermel pollen as we’d make selling the yarn. And I’ve no wish to run afoul of the Rivani merchants guild.”

“The cultivar Orlais has been working on sounded real promising but I doubt it’ll happen for at least a few years. Rumor is, it has to be grown in a glass jar.”

Nepenthe paused, still in the shadows of the trees.

She remembered her mother weighing the bedstraw root, marking the mordant tests down in her journal, trial after trial, until finally she pulled the deep orange-red yarn out of the dye bath, a smile stretching across her face. Nepenthe had been six. Her clan had guarded the secret to that dye color rigorously. It was the color that had gotten them the contract with the weaving mill. The color that was worth more than the people who made it. 

She knew the recipe still. Still? Always. As ingrained in her consciousness as her name. And in her mind it stayed, boxed in and jumbled with all the other knowledge she alone was left to carry. Perhaps she could have taught another clan the entire process of making the thread - how to grow the flax, and dry it. How to process it, and spin it, and dye it. How to trade it. But there had always been other things to do. Rifts, and battles, and politics. 

And now there might not be a chance. 

She walked into the clearing. “Bedstraw root,” she said, surprising all of them, but once she’d said it, it felt right.  
  
Malle stopped knitting and looked up. “What about bedstraw root?”

“It’ll get you that color.” Nepenthe gestured toward Malle’s bodice. Perhaps she had carried this secret long enough. They were kind, and kindness never seemed to count as much as it should.

Kara squinted at her. “You’re an interesting one, aren’t you?” She reached for the ladle and spooned some of the meal into a bowl. “Bedstraw root? Only color I’ve seen with that is pale orange.” With a quick tap of the spoon on the rim of the pan, she held out the bowl to Nepenthe, who took it with a murmured thanks and settled herself across the fire from the merchants. She would eat. She would unburden herself. She would go.

She blew on a spoonful of the beans and sausage. “You can get the deep color. The secret is using dried roots and an iron mordant.” 

Kara looked suspicious. “How do you know that?”

Nepenthe shrugged. “I come by it honestly if that’s what you’re worried about. The information is mine to give.”

She began to explain the specifics between bites. Kara and Malle looked at each other in confused silence and then Malle set down her knitting and hurried away, returning with parchment and ink a moment later. She asked Nepenthe to start over and wrote out notes, asking questions about timing and temperature. 

As she spoke, Nepenthe wondered what her mother would think, giving their secrets away to humans. And at first, the pen scratching on the parchment was like the words were being drained out of her, a recipe written in her blood, in her family’s blood, as red as the dye. 

But it didn’t matter anymore. Let someone benefit from it. Let her release this one thing so it could live on, and let someone else carry it. 

She finished her meal and chased the last drippings around her bowl. “You may have to adjust a bit for wool, but hopefully it gets you started.”

Kara got up and brushed off her skirt, almost a nervous gesture, and took the bowl from Nepenthe. “I can’t rightly express myself, but I expect we owe you something for this kindness you’ve done us tonight.”

Nepenthe shook her head as she got to her feet. “It needed to be passed along.” Her voice was hoarse, and not only from talking for so long. “When-” She swallowed the lump in her throat, and forced herself to smile. “When you can no longer use it, pass it along to someone who can.” 

Kara nodded, her brows knitting together. “We can do that.”

Nepenthe crossed to the wagon and pulled out her pack. “Thank you for the ride, and for the meal.” She slipped the straps onto her shoulders. “I can’t really explain, and I admit, it sounds a bit dramatic, but I can’t continue traveling with you. For your own safety.” 

Back into the darkness alone. But hopefully not for long.

Malle and Kara protested at first, but after a few minutes of argument, sighed and gave in, both of them with their hands on their hips, unconsciously mirroring each other. Nepenthe tried to pay them for the ride and the meal, but they flatly refused, claiming the dye recipe was worth more than their entire year of stock.

As Nepenthe walked away into the night, she heard them talking, faintly, and she was just able to make out the words. 

“And you wanted to stop traveling.” 

“Did you think she looked familiar?” 

A gust of wind covered whatever reply was made.

* * *

Clouds covered the sky, blotting out the stars and shrouding the peaks of the Frostbacks in somber shadows. The light of the moons was diffused, and she could just make out the road as a lighter black flanked by darker black underbrush. At least it was relatively smooth if she stayed between the wagon ruts and the incline was steady as it wound upward across switchbacks. Nepenthe had lost track of time and miles, but it must be nearly dawn and the cabin should be on the other side of the ridge, slightly off the main road. She reached the end of switchback and turned wearily to continue upward. 

A strange clucking trill to her left broke the silence of the night, and she froze, heart hammering, her hand raised as she calculated the risk of using a spell. The woods were pitch black but she scanned them anyway, hoping to see some sign of movement. When there was none and the only sound was her own stifled breathing, she crept forward and then there was a rush of wings and a shape, black against black, flew overhead. She dropped into a crouch, hissing between her teeth as the noise came again, growing fainter. She knew that sound - a mountain ptarmigan. She’d merely startled a bird. She dropped her hand and stood, exhaustion replacing the adrenaline.

She turned back to the road and frowned. There were two unfamiliar paths before her - one going up and one going down. _ Which had she just come from? _ Her breath clouded in the air as she looked back and forth between them. _ Which direction? _Something pulled at her that this was the wrong way entirely and she needed to find her way towards… She wasn’t sure - the form of it was shadowy in her mind.

_Tuatha em'an._ _Gara bre'durgalas._ The wind whispered through the trees and seemed to provide the answer. _Down. She needed to go down the mountain. Of course._ She breathed a sigh of relief and started walking again. 

Before she’d gone far, the clouds parted and moonlight briefly illuminated the road, the shadows of the boughs above her thrown into sharp relief. They reminded her of antlers, twisting and clashing in a violent dance. Through gaps in the trees, the valley was visible, patches of light like silver lichen growing across it. She blinked. The valley. 

_ No. _

_ No, this was wrong. _

She ground the heel of her hand into her forehead. 

_The cabin,_ she thought wearily.

_ Abelas. _

She needed to go up. 

Nepenthe spun around and marched up the mountain, her jaw clenched around a fear so raw it made her lightheaded. This wasn’t the first time this had happened tonight. Or the second. At one point she’d probably backtracked a mile before she passed the same quiet farmhouse and realized her error. 

She needed to reach the cabin. She needed to sleep. She needed the illusion of safety that walls would provide. 

She needed to see him. 

If he actually came back, maybe she hadn’t been wrong about one more thing, and she clung to that thought with a fragile hope.

_Tuatha em'an._ _Gara bre'durgalas. _The compulsion hovered on the edge of her consciousness. She clenched her hand, fingernails digging into her palm, four crescent-shaped impressions that kept her focused on the pain and on her destination. 

When she reached the crest of the ridge, dawn was breaking and the clouds around the Frostbacks shifted into colors of mauve and lavender. If she hadn’t felt so drained, she might have cried at the sight of the shallow valley spread before her. The cabin was there somewhere. And soon he would be, too. A mix of anticipation and anxiety and doubt stirred in her stomach and she forced herself to keep walking before she became confused about the direction again.

She left the main road as the sky grew steadily lighter and the clouds dropped lower, heavy with the threat of a storm. A clearing opened ahead, a sloping hill covered in brown grasses, and at the top of it - the cabin. It was circular and made of sturdy beams, though the shutters hung crookedly and the roof was covered with moss - probably it was meant to look derelict, but the sizable stack of firewood behind it hinted at its regular maintenance as an Inquisition safe house. The long grass swished around her legs and sweat ran down her hairline as she slowly made her way up the last hill. Her head drooped and her breath matched up with the pace of her final steps. 

She’d made it. The Sentinels had not attacked her on the road. 

Perhaps she should consider barring the door to keep herself here until Abelas arrived.

She started to climb the low steps to the front door and for a moment, everything blurred and she staggered as she misstepped. Before she hit the stairs, a hand caught her elbow - _so_ _fast_ \- and helped her stand again. She leaned her shoulder against the beam supporting the porch roof, and looked up into Abelas’s eyes. He’d come.

He’d come. 

For a moment she just looked at him. He was pale, and the skin under his eyes was shadowed. Some of his hair had slipped out of his braid and he’d tucked it behind his ears and there was something so fragile and ordinary about it that her heart ached. 

After a beat, he let go of her arm. 

“You’re here.” Her voice came out as a croak and she cleared her throat. Her legs felt like they were about to give out again, so she removed her pack and slid down to sit on the top step, resting her arms across her knees.

After a brief hesitation, he joined her, but left space between them. “I told you I would be.” It was stated as fact and his face revealed nothing of his thoughts. Was this duty? Was this a trick? 

He looked away, focusing somewhere over her shoulder before he glanced at her again, taking a quick inventory of her head, her torso, her legs, her hand. It smarted where she’d dug her nails in and she could see the small red crescents that marked her body as still her own.

She wanted to tell him she was glad to see him, and scared, and that she didn’t know what it meant that he was risking his life to save hers. 

“You look terrible,” is what came out instead.

His expression softened momentarily before becoming grave once more. “So do you.” He sat so stoically, straight backed, that with a flash of irritation, she wondered how he could be so unaffected when her heart was beating so fast. Until her eyes dropped to his hand, where one finger was flicking against his thumb, a rapid, staccato rhythm that crumbled his facade of impassivity.

That small tell nearly undid her. She gripped her knee to keep from reaching out to him. “What happens next?” 

He scratched his chin then gestured across the clearing. “This is not a terrible position to defend should we be attacked. We have the height of land and there is no cover within arrow range. Any approach is exposed, but because of the topography, an approach from the south is most likely and it would be visible from the cabin windows.”

Here was the soldier, commanding, prepared, and she wasn’t sure if he’d deliberately misinterpreted her question, or if this was simply a structure he was clinging to.

“I have set wards around the perimeter,” he continued, “and a barrier. A partial barrier. I will need to enhance it in a few hours.”

If he couldn’t even set a barrier, it either meant he’d done something that required a frightening amount of power, or he’d slowly drained his reserves. She was too tired to think up a clever way to ask.

“Why in a few hours?”

He gave a self deprecating shake of his head. “I occasionally still underestimate the limits of magic here.”

When she continued to observe him, he looked down at the ground, picking at the edge of his thumb nail. “I have not slept since… the aravel. After we spoke, I began drawing from the Fade to travel more quickly, and it will take time for my magic to recover.”

She tried to calculate the hours, days nearly, that he’d been awake and failed. No wonder he looked so worn. “But you found me in the Fade.”  
  
“I meditated.”

He must have done so frequently to have had any chance of finding her in the Fade. He’d been trying to find her. Over and over and over. But how had he learned about the arrows? There were more questions to be asked there, but she sighed and dropped her head onto her crossed arms. She could fall asleep like this. She nearly _ was _ asleep like this.

“Nepenthe, how long have you been walking?” 

“Since a little past nightfall,” she murmured and stifled a yawn.

After a moment of silence, she opened an eye and turned her head to look at him. He seemed worried. “My leg is doing much better since the tonic,” she explained.  
  
“Still, that is... “ He sighed. “And the _ banal'ras_? The blight magic? Can you feel anything different?” 

She nodded. “It’s interfering with my magic,” she said toward the ground. “I set wards last night, but it was hard. And...and sometimes it feels like…” She swallowed. “Like I’m supposed to be going somewhere. And I don’t want to.” 

Nepenthe sat up again, worry flashing back about how the tracking worked. “Can they tell everywhere I’ve been? With the tracking?”

“No,” he said softly. “It is localized. The clan we encountered is not in danger.”

A small mercy - Malle and Kara were also safe. Thank the… not the creators. But thank something. She rubbed her face. What else did she need to ask before entrusting her life to this man?

“Did you know about the arrows from the beginning?”

“Not from the beginning. And if I had-” He broke off and she wasn’t sure she wanted him to finish the thought. It seemed to hint at fates worse than death and the mercy of a sharp blade.

“How _ did _ you find out then?” She wrapped her arms around herself - it was cold now that she’d stopped walking.

He hesitated. “I ran into a Sentinel that used to be under my command as he was returning from Andruil’s temple - one of his operatives was shot.” She noticed he said _ his _ and not _ our_. “_He _realized they were _ assanen an’banal. _I should have.”

“Why was he at the temple?” she pressed, the cold air and the promise of answers making her slightly more alert.

“Fen’Harel sent a small force to eliminate Andruil’s Sentinels.”

There it was. Solas’s hand in everything. “And after that, you reported to him. About me.” Exhaustion made her voice flat and she supposed that was a blessing. She studied the boards between her feet and saw him working to formulate a response. She frowned. “About me, but not the orb.” 

He exhaled, and shifted until his back was against the opposite roof support, facing her. “We still need to discuss that orb. But I did not report about it or about you. In truth, I am not sure it could even be called a report.” He studied the underside of the clouds. “I do not know if my message is the reason he came to you. Possibly, I should have been more careful with my words.”

Apprehension coiled in her gut as she flicked through possible options, all of them disastrous - for him, for her, for everyone. “What was your message?” 

He rubbed his mouth and she refused to think about his lips on her neck, his breath against her ear. “I told him I had something to take care of.” 

When he said nothing further, she raised an eyebrow and shrugged her shoulders in a silent question, urging him to explain.

He held her gaze, then inclined his head slightly and slowly raised his eyebrow in return. His meaning was clear. Her.

“Oh.” She was fairly certain a traitorous blush was creeping across her cheeks. “Appreciated.” There was something weighty about this admission, this choice he was freely making, but she was not ready to chase that idea yet, even as her pulse quickened.

The wind gusted and icy tendrils of air found their way down the back of her collar. Despite the heat pooling in her lower belly, she shivered violently.

“Come,” he said, standing up. “You’re cold. Rest while I regain my magic and afterward…” She raised her head to look at him. He hesitated, fear flickering across his features, before his expression settled into something like determination. “I will fix this, Nepenthe.” 

She should care more about the complicated things between them, and about the war that was brewing. But all that felt very far away, like some distant horizon she could just make out through the fog, the shape hazy and indistinct. While what was in front of her was solid and real, and holding out a hand. 

And mostly she was relieved, as he helped her to her feet. Somehow their fingers laced together - _ he’s freezing _\- and neither of them let go as he led her through the doorway. She looked back over her shoulder to close the door and saw that the clouds had finally delivered on their threat and fat, slow snowflakes were falling to the ground.

“Look,” she said and he came back to her side. They stood in the doorway together, watching the snow fall, the air cold on her face, and his palm warm in her hand.

Until the insidious pull to go deeper, go elsewhere returned, a throbbing behind her temples, a bolt of fear down her spine.

“Abelas,” she whispered, as the snow fell faster, obscuring the edge of the clearing, “help me stay here. I don’t want to go.”

His grip tightened on her hand. “She will not have you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've intentionally not translated the Elvhen that Nepenthe is hearing since she doesn't understand it and we're in her POV.  
A quick note on the blight magic - we're dealing with some ancient Evanuris shit, so while this involves blight magic, it's not the same as THE blight.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for your comments - I treasure them all 💚
> 
> Onward to cozy cabins and conversations!


	24. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter recap: Nepenthe spent time with the merchants and realized her magic was difficult to use with the blight magic interfering. She traveled on foot to the cabin with increasing confusion and feeling a pull toward something. Abelas was already there - yay! Tense conversations and just a *little* bit of hand holding ensued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my beta thelittlestfische and to faerieavalon and solas-disapproves for their support and help <3

Ableas rubbed his face and stretched. He had not intended to fall asleep - half out of his armor no less - but he'd sat down next to the bed where Nepenthe was resting and evidently that had been enough. He rose to his knees to check on her. She’d turned the bed into a nest - curled into a ball at the center of the straw-stuffed mattress, wrapped in both his bedroll and a blanket they’d found in a chest, still fast asleep. He hoped her dreams were peaceful - that no nightmares plagued her of whispers and a need to follow them. 

Part of him wanted to wake her up and another part was enjoying the uncomplicated task of watching over her as she slept, tucked into the safety of her blankets. Her hand rested by her face and there were angry red marks on her palm, the skin broken, blood under her nails. Something she had done to herself. He'd held that hand, so much smaller than his, when she'd pulled him back because it was snowing, and she wanted to show him. They had stood in the doorway, together, just watching, because it was beautiful. Fleeting, and still beautiful. _Venavis._ He needed his magic to return. 

Abelas sighed. He was getting too entangled - it was not wise. When had he ever chosen what he wanted over his duty?

_ And what is your duty now? _he asked himself, and did not have an answer.

He crossed to the window and wiped away the condensation from a pane to look outside. The snow had settled into drifts against the side of the cabin and covered the grasses in the clearing and was still falling heavily. It was an unexpected boon - Andruil’s Sentinels would have no choice but to wait out a storm like this. Though, unless Nepenthe had managed to restock on food supplies, it could easily prove to be a double edged sword, since hunting was also out of the question. On the other hand, she probably knew ten kinds of edible trees within sight of the cabin. 

He rubbed his hands together and shivered in his underlayer. While they slept, the fire had dwindled to barely warm coals. He’d meant to stoke it, but... then he'd fallen asleep for several hours. He turned to the stack of wood he’d brought in when he first arrived and added several logs to the large stone fireplace. With a gesture, they burst into flame. Good - his mana was recovering. For good measure, he also cast several heat glyphs around the cabin, including one under the bed, to encourage the place to warm up. 

Nepenthe stirred under the blankets, her brow furrowing and her hand twitching as a small, pained sound escaped her lips. His cue to wake her up. He sat on the bed, already warmer from the heat glyph, and the frame creaked under his weight. 

“Mol-” He cut himself off. Things were not the same between them. Because of the kiss. Because of the orb. Because he had left. “Nepenthe.” He rubbed her shoulder gently. “Wake up.”  
  
With a start and then a groan, she rolled onto her back and pushed the blankets off, stretching her arms over her head. Her linen undershirt rode up, revealing a crescent of her bare stomach, the jut of her hip bone, and his gaze froze there, as he remembered the slide of his fingers over her skin. It had all happened too fast before. He should have slowed down, or waited until they were sober. If he got the chance again, he’d take his time, explore every inch of her body with his eyes, his hands, his mouth. He tried to keep an image of what that would be like from flashing through his mind, and failed utterly. When he glanced up, she was looking at him with those charcoal dark eyes, and the moment stretched - _ dangerous _ \- before she sat up slowly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. 

He stood up, looking for something to busy himself with. “Were you having nightmares again?” he asked. 

Food. They still had no food. He should look for that.

“No,” her voice was slightly raspy. “Well, just the usual kind. Nothing unexpected.” She yawned as he scanned the room again - the simple bench by the fireplace, the heavy wooden chest where they’d found blankets, the small table with two chairs, and the high shelf that ran along the circular wall. Nothing obviously food storage. 

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

“A little. I did not intend to, but the storm will provide us with some respite from pursuit.” He crouched to open a cabinet under the stone sink and took stock of the contents. Wooden plates, two ceramic mugs, a large chipped ceramic bowl, a cast iron pot with a lid, a kettle. 

No food. 

The bed creaked and she stretched again, her undershirt pulling tight across her chest, the edges of her breastband visible underneath it. What would it have been like waking up next to her in the aravel? Would she have curled into his side and kissed him softly, a continuation of the night before? Or would she have woken feverish again, complaining about a headache that he could have fixed with a touch? He should have waited to find out. And he still needed to discuss that cursed orb with her.

He moved on to the next cabinet. Empty. No, there in the corner, a jar of some kind. He pulled it out and removed the lid, sniffing. 

“Is this tea?” he asked, holding out the container. She rose and padded across the floor barefoot, and even this was interesting. The way she moved, still hazy with sleep, her hair a mass of messy curls that brushed against his fingers when she bent down to smell the tin. 

“Yes, it’s tea. Do you drink it?”

Once a cup of tea would have been almost ritualistic - a time to reflect, or honor a guest, or pass time with a friend, and each variety had its own meaning. A language spoken in leaves. Forgotten now. “It has been a long time since I’ve had a proper cup. I used to enjoy it.”

“I’ll make us some then.” She started to take the tin from him with an unreadable expression - relieved? anxious? He pulled the tin back. 

“I can do it. Sit.” He nodded toward the small table. 

She raised her eyebrows, looking like she was about to argue, but after a moment, pulled a chair out and sat.

He got the cups out of the cabinet and filled the kettle with an ice spell.

“What did it feel like when you were bound to the _ vir’abelasan__?_” she asked.

“It was my duty.”

“I know.” She pulled her knee to her chest, already a gesture he recognized when she was anxious. “But what did it _ feel _ like? Did it... pull at you?” 

He set a fire glyph under the kettle so the ice would melt. “It… Yes. I could sense it. Sometimes we would range out of the temple to see the changes in the world. The farther we went, the more I could feel the pull of the _ vir’abelasan_.” He turned to face her, leaning back against the counter. “Is that what this feels like to you? Something pulling at you?”

“I hate it.” She looked away and curled her fingers into the marks on her palm. “The anchor was... it was power, but it was never like this - like I couldn’t trust my own thoughts or my own body.” She squeezed tighter, her nails biting into her skin. “Is that what it was like for you?”

He stepped to the table and gently pried her fingers open, pressing them against the tabletop. “Don't. You are still here. And we will fix this.” 

She looked at him with narrowed eyes and he ran his thumb under the marks, examining the damage. 

“May I heal these?” he asked.

She nodded slowly, and he sent a wash of his magic along her palm, watching the broken skin knit back together until the marks were only faint pink crescents. He withdrew his magic and, more reluctantly, his hand. 

“We will fix this,” he repeated. “My magic is nearly back to a level where we can start.” 

He had only the beginnings of an idea for how he would try to block the blight magic - if he could do it at all. 

She chewed the corner of her lip. “I owe you one after this.”

There was some promise of a future in those words, but also a deep wariness. He turned back to check the kettle. “If we are keeping track,” he said over his shoulder, “I would say you already owe me for saving you from the assassin.”

After a moment, she scoffed. “For that? No, that was just repayment for saving _ you _ at the temple.”

He hummed, glad she’d matched his bid to focus on something besides the blight magic. “No. I already repaid that when I saved you from the Priestess the first time.” _ Molain. _The endearment caught on his tongue as he tipped some of the tea leaves into each cup. Shame there wasn’t a way to strain it, or a decent tea pot to serve it in. 

She stood up and came next to him, resting her hand against the counter. “I killed that demon,” she shot back, bemused.

He matched her position. “I kept us from freezing in the snow.”

“I kept the clan from catching on to you in a second.” There was a challenge in her gaze but something softer as well. 

But their timeline was getting dangerously close to when he’d taken the orb and he would rather avoid that conversation. For now. He pretended to seriously consider the matter. “Very well. I am willing to concede that we are currently even.”

“Then I owe you one after this - as I said.” She tipped her head with a slight smile and grabbed the mug nearest to her. He stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “Let me.” 

That earned him another skeptical look but she slowly sat at the table again. 

“You are not used to people helping you,” he said, checking to make sure the water was hot but not boiling. 

“I used to be. Before every favor meant something expected in return.” 

He set the cups on the table. “When you were the Inquisitor?”

“Yes, then.” She rubbed at the stump of her arm and he wondered if it was bothering her. “I had to check with my advisor just to make sure that accepting a gift of biscuits didn’t bind me in a marriage contract with some Orlesian lord.”

“And did it?” 

She snorted. “Luckily no, because I’d already eaten them.”

He bit back a smile, remembering some of the elaborate customs of Elvhenan - not that he’d had a chance to use them - and poured the water into her cup, the steam rising in the cold air. “I expect nothing in return, if that eases your mind. And if I wanted to court you, I hope I could do better than a terrible cup of tea.” He may have sidestepped the part where he’d just traveled half a country in a night for her.

“Maybe that’s all I want,” she said sardonically. “You don’t know me that well yet.” 

He caught the word _ yet _ like it was a flame in the darkness. It was true. He didn’t know her all that well yet. But he wanted to. He wanted to know how she survived in this world, why she fought for it. He remembered her face, tipped back and wondering, watching the birds fly above the pines. Her smile at the Dalish feast, her questions about magic, her tenuous hope.

“I imagine you deserve better,” he said, as he poured his own cup, then immediately pulled himself back. “At least a mediocre cup of tea. Maybe even a palatable cup if someone wanted to be extravagant.” She still didn't really know how much had changed since the days of Elvhenan, how much better she truly deserved.

Nepenthe regarded him with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “That much? I should have held out for something better than biscuits.” Then her expression shifted, closed off, something sad in the set of her eyes. “But for now, I’m grateful for the terrible cup.” She raised her mug in a toast.

“It was my pleasure.” He repeated her gesture, then leaned back in his chair and blew across the surface of the tea. He took a sip and tried to suppress a grimace - it was bitter, and too strong, but at least it was hot.

She pursed her lips and cleared her throat as she replaced her cup on the table. “Maybe it needs milk.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “I apologize that the strange tea in an abandoned cabin is not up to my usual standards.” 

“As you should.” Her lips twisted in a half smile and he tucked the sight of it away in his memory, nestled alongside yellow leaves, and birds in flight, and falling snow - a small collection of things that were still beautiful in this world.

She pulled at the neck of her shirt and pushed her hair off her face. Her cheeks were flushed and there was a faint line of perspiration along her hairline.

Worry shot through him. “Are you feverish again? Do you still have the tonic?”

“No, it’s just _ incredibly _ hot in here.” She fanned at her face. “It isn't bothering you?”

He frowned and glanced around. “It is barely warm in here. The heat glyphs have just begun to work.”

A faint line appeared between her brows. “It’s _ really _ hot,” she said, as if she couldn’t quite believe they disagreed on this point. “How many did you use?”

He gestured over his shoulder. “It is freezing out there. I had to place several... Five.”

“Five?” The half smile returned as she rose from the table and headed toward the bed, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘oh you delicate summer flower.’ He frowned. Five seemed a reasonable number when temperatures were this low.

She grabbed a blanket and came to the back of his chair. A warm weight settled across his shoulders, carrying the scent of the cedar chest it had come from and her - lavender. He stiffened, then forced himself to relax at the unexpected thoughtfulness. She adjusted the blanket and her fingers brushed against his neck, lingering just a moment too long for it to be entirely accidental and he could feel the ghost of her touch and the rapid beat of his heart even after she withdrew.

She smoothed the blanket down his shoulder and stepped back. “There. Now can you please remove one of the glyphs? You’re going to roast us in here.”

He blew his breath out slowly, shaking his head in feigned disbelief, but did as she asked and curled his fingers to pull apart one of the glyphs. “Speaking of roasting,” he said, “we may be low on food if the storm continues.”

“There’s supposed to be supplies under a loose floorboard,” she said as she sat in her chair again. “But we should check.”

He’d assumed this was an unfamiliar place to her, but perhaps that had been a mistake. An image of her in the same creaky bed with Fen’Harel came to mind and he wondered if he was trying to fit himself into a space that was already shaped like someone else. He was not jealous exactly, but her feelings for the Wolf were... unclear, even from the emotions he’d sensed in her aura. 

“Have you been here before?” he asked anyway, perhaps against his better judgement. 

“No, it’s an Inquisition safe house.” 

“Like a sanctuary?” Perhaps it had been similar to the secret locations of Fen’Harel’s rebellion, where he had protected the unbound, though Abelas had only heard of them.

“Not exactly. Agents could come here to rest and restock on supplies while they were in the field.” 

The cozy image of her and Fen’Harel transformed into one of weary scouts and desperate spies, thankful for the respite, and he was more relieved by this than he’d care to admit.

“You are divulging the locations of your safe houses to me?”

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I’m sure your boss already knows about it.”

The implication made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t quite define. “I swore no oath to Fen’Harel.” 

She seemed very close to arguing with him about that but with a slow inhale, her features smoothed and she changed tactics.

“Speaking of oaths, you avoided my question earlier,” she said. 

He frowned. “Which...one?” 

“I asked if that’s what it had been like for you. Being bound. Not quite trusting your own thoughts.”

He wrapped his hands around the mug, it felt good on his fingers, even if it was undrinkable. “It was not the same as what Andruil’s magic is doing to you,” he said gently. “My thoughts were my own. But I had given my life in service, and that meant I was required to be faithful.” _Halam'shivanas. "_It was not a hardship,” he clarified. “I believed in Mythal - in what she stood for, in how she ruled. Most of the time, I did not think about my faith very much. It was just there. Part of me.” And now... And now that faith was disintegrating, leaving behind a hole that he didn’t know how to fill. Mythal had not come to them. Not once.

“Could you have left Mythal’s temple after the Veil was created?”

He shook his head. “I could not leave, no. But the temple was more than a responsibility, it was my home. It had been my home for decades. Elvhenan had fallen, and the Elvhen people with it. From the little of the world I saw surrounding the temple, I had no wish to see more.”

“Is that why you stayed even...after?”

The question picked at a scab barely healed over, his shame fresh under the surface. He looked down at his hands. What had he managed to carry? Even his duty had slipped between his fingers.

“That was....” _ Punishment. Shame. Atonement. _He should just tell her. Unburden himself of the weight that his choice left on his shoulders. His clawing guilt over being responsible for the loss of something irreplaceable. His anger that it had all come to nothing. “It was familiar, yes.” 

Someday. Maybe he would talk about it with her someday.

She ran her thumb along a gouge on the table. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. I didn’t understand.”

“No,” he sighed, his anger dissipating. She had been forced to make an impossible decision. “You could not be expected to. And I do not mean that as an insult.” Fen’Harel had understood though. He had known what the _vir’abelasan_ was, what would be lost, and had been willing to sacrifice it anyway. “In the end, it was my choice to abandon the _ vir’abelasan_. I could have destroyed it. I could have given my life protecting it.”

She stilled at that, then began picking at the table again. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“I suppose your battle would have gone differently without the _ vir’abelasan_.”

_ “No._” She rested her elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “Not because of the _ vir’abelasan__._ Because you deserve better.” The echo of his own words to her shook something loose in his chest and he looked down at the tea leaves swirling around in his mug. Kindness. That thin thread of unlooked for kindness she was offering him again. A chance for something else.

“I abandoned my duty.”

“Your _ duty _ would have left you in that temple until the walls crumbled down around you.” Her hand slipped into his peripheral vision, reaching for him from across the table. “You’re more than your duty. You have a choice.” Her tone was urgent and he looked up.

Was she offering him an alternative? A place if he came with her? Would she still do that, after everything that had come to light? Or was the choice to walk away, wander on his own until he found some new purpose?

She scrunched her eyes closed and massaged her temple.

"Nepenthe?" 

She pushed back from the table and stood, then took a step and faltered. She glanced around, confused, before her legs buckled. 

Abelas caught her around the waist before she hit the floor.

He pulled her upright and she leaned into his chest, looking around the room. “This is… How did we get here? It’s closer now. Much closer”

“Nepenthe.”

“I can hear it. It feels closer, but this isn’t where I’m supposed to be.” She started to pull away toward the door and he tightened his arm around her. “I have to go so far,” she said dazedly.

He cupped her face in his hand, and tipped her chin to look up at him. “Nepenthe. Stay with me. Stay here.”

“It’s so far beneath us.” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, like she was listening. “What does_ tuatha em'an gara bre'durgalas _ mean?”

Raw fear slithered in his stomach. “It means ‘join us. Come deeper.’” 

She accepted that mutely, mouthing the elvhen words again. 

With his arm around her, he half carried her to the bed and helped her lie down. “And it means that we are running out of time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sentinel armor must be magic to have shiny gold plate armor, chainmail, and some kind of base layer in there so the mail doesn’t chafe - and still be vacuum sealed to the leg. So just imagine Abelas is in a lightweight underlayer for this scene - sort of like this.  

> 
> Also, it’s jarring to be writing about winter snuggles while it’s currently 90 degrees (about 32 C) 😅
> 
> We’ll be hanging in the cabin for a little longer - get cozy :)
> 
> ALSO, this chapter marks 100,000 words (!) and is being published almost a year after I first started drafting this story - my first foray into writing in many, many years.  
Thank you all for reading - your comments and kudos and bookmarks help me keep going and mean the world! Seriously - you are all the best!


	25. The Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief recap of last chapter: Abelas and Nepenthe got settled in at the cabin, had tea and slightly less tense conversations. Abelas talked about what it was like to be bound to Mythal's service, continued to have a bit of an existential crisis, and at the end, Nepenthe was in a bad place with voices and blight magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a hot minute since I was able to update, life and all that! Thanks as always to my beta thelittlestfische and to faerieavalon and solas-disapproves for their support and help

Abelas's chest vibrated against her ear, a low rumble as he said something and she tried to focus on what. 

“Stay with me. Stay here.” He said it over and over as he half carried her, a low litany that competed with the rasping elvhen in her mind.

_ I’m trying to, _she wanted to respond, but before the words reached her mouth, they were broken apart into syllables and sounds and rearranged by the buzzing discordance.

Fenedhis. They hadn’t talked about the right things yet. It had been easier to joke that she’d owe him one after this - easier to pretend she’d be sane enough for him to collect. She should have abandoned her stubborn pride and gone to Solas. She should have told Abelas the voices were getting steadily stronger as they had tea. She should have written to her friends. She’d written so many letters to her family, just in case, only to take them out of her armor and burn them in the medical tent when ‘just in case’ became ‘not today.’ 

Was this _not today_, or was this it?

Abelas tipped her back on the bed and it was like she was being laid to rest on the surface of some great sea. She lifted her chin to keep her mouth above water, but it didn’t matter - she slipped beneath the waves and drifted toward the bottom as the sun flickered and reformed and grew dimmer overhead. 

** _Tuatha em'an. Gara bre'durgalas. _ **The words pounded through her head as Abelas leaned over her, his hand against her cheek, his eyes narrowed and searching. His lips moved but his words were drowned out by the hissed syllables that echoed in her skull.

She tried to untangle her thoughts, slip them through in a configuration that made sense. 

“Don’t…” she said.

He wasn’t looking at her - his fingers were on her neck. Always such gentle hands. “I am just checking your pulse,” he said. 

She grabbed his arm and tried again. 

“Don’t…” No, that wasn’t right. His eyes were lighter around the center. She’d meant to ask him about the Evanuris. But also about what had come before his duty, and what he missed, and what he found beautiful, and what he loved. “If this doesn’t work,” she gasped out, “don’t let me leave here.”

She dug her fingers into his arm, hoping he understood what she was asking. Not this watery grave. An earthen one with a tree. Josie would know - she had the plans from before. She should have written.

“I have to put you to sleep. You will be in the Fade, but I will try to watch over you.”

His thumb brushed along her cheek and her back hit the bottom of the ocean, the sun only a pinprick of light, high and far away. 

_ I have done it all wrong_, she thought, and then everything went dark.

* * *

Rocks jutted out of red sand in unnatural angles - broken and jagged like they had been forcefully expelled from the ground in some great upheaval. The air was dry and hot and dust swirled around her, coating her tongue when she breathed. 

The dust obscured everything into shadowy forms and covered the sun, casting the landscape in a strange orange glow. The clash of blades on armor rang out, competing with shouts and screams. The sizzle of magic in the air made the hair on her arms stand up and the too-familiar scents of blood and death hung over everything. 

A battle. She was in the middle of a battle. And she wasn’t even wearing her armor, just simple leggings and her grey tunic. Shit.

She shielded her eyes and crept a few steps through the sand, when the pull came again - a snap in her chest like a string drawing tight. 

She was close. 

There - ahead. A huge dark shape. Impossible to say what it was through the haze, or even how far away, but that was indisputably her destination. She began to run, holding her sleeve over her mouth and nose as best she could and scanning for signs of the fight. Shapes became visible in the dust, small pockets of people fighting, but the battlefield was as spread out as it was chaotic. She went around them.

A gust of wind flung sand into her eyes and as she tried to wipe it out, she tripped on a rock and fell, landing on one knee in the sand. 

Something materialized to her left - hanging rags on a rotting body. She dodged back instinctively, readying a spell. But before she could release it, a shimmering blade burst through the thing’s chest. An elf in ornate armor kicked the body off his sword and it fell into the dust in front of her. 

He turned away, plunging back into the fray, and Nepenthe had just enough time to see the vallaslin of Mythal on his face.

She scrambled to her feet and spared the body a quick glance - it had once been a woman, but now her scarred skin was pulled tight over her skull, teeth bared, eyes red and glowing. Andruil’s vallaslin was etched across her face in fiery lines of red lyrium. 

The blowing sand was already covering the corpse as Nepenthe began running again.

_ Where was she? _

Dust clung to the sweat on her face and trickled down her collar as she wove between clusters of fighting elves. Some she passed by close enough to see their vallaslin - most were Mythal’s but there was also Elgar’nan, Sylaise, June. And everywhere, the hoards of Andruil’s corrupted forces. 

Nepenthe sprinted up a jutting rock and skidded to a halt as the dust cleared briefly. The shadow she’d seen before resolved into a towering gateway, hundreds of feet high, set into the side of a sheer cliff. On either side of it, carved from the rock itself, were colossal statues of Andruil. One held a bow and arrow and the other a spear, but both were stylized to show her with a hawk’s outstretched wings behind her head. They were immense at a scale she could scarcely comprehend - she would barely reach the Huntress’s toe when she passed through to find the source of the call.

_ You deserve better. _

_ I have done it all wrong. _

She rubbed her temple, pushing the intruding thoughts away. Sounds of fighting drew closer, and she jumped down from the rock as some kind of electrical spell crackled in the air around her. Lightning began to rain down in arcing bolts that hissed and sizzled. The wind carried the sulphurous smell of burning hair as a scream cut short to her side. She dashed away, weaving between strikes that turned the sand to glass, her breaths coming short and shallow. 

She ran, focused on the arch, feet pounding along the ground. Getting through the arch was all that mattered. The call was everything. 

The fighting thinned and the way to the gate was clear. She pushed herself harder.

And then part of the cliff _ shifted. _

Nepenthe’s pace faltered and she nearly stumbled, scanning the area for cover from this new threat. Or should she chance covering the distance to the arch? 

_ Fenedhis. _

She was so close. 

An immense golden shape uncoiled itself, peeling away from the base of the cliff, growing larger and larger, and an ear splitting cry rent the air. She ground her teeth and changed course, ducking behind the nearest boulder. Wings unfurled as the beast roared again - both a guttural growl and a rising shriek that she felt in her teeth. 

A dragon. 

An _ enormous _ dragon, easily three times the size of any she’d seen before. With a single stroke of its massive wings, it launched itself into the air and sent a whirlwind of dust across the desert. She had just enough time to duck down before the wall of sand hit. 

For several seconds, she was in darkness - eyes closed, breath held. The pull became unbearable, a physical ache in her chest. 

** _Tuatha em'an. Gara bre'durgalas. _ **

_ I know, _ she screamed internally. _ I’m trying. _

The wind slackened. As she uncurled herself, the dragon shrieked again and this time, there was an answering cry. It was a howl that shook the ground - the sound of something broken and forbidden. It was vengeance and forgotten secrets screamed into the darkness. It was blood and sacrifice. 

Her breath caught in her throat, a primal fear coursing through her blood, buzzing into her extremities. 

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t. Her muscles refused.

But she had to answer the call.

With joints so tense they ached, she shifted around to the side of the boulder, pressing her shoulder into the side of it. Between her hiding place and the arch, the dragon was fighting a shadow. 

It was a monstrous form, shrouded in smoke that swirled and condensed. Horns and wings and claws seemed to be part of it, but it was formless and black at the center. The dragon lunged. The shadow drew back and a black gauntlet emerged from the darkness. In its grip was a spear that crackled with pulsing red energy and Nepenthe recoiled from it.

She needed to reach the gate. It was time. But a direct route would take her too close to the fighting and an indirect one meant she’d be exposed for longer. The cries of battle still sounded behind her.

** _Tuatha em'an. Gara bre'durgalas. _ **

She grimaced and clenched her eyes shut. Maybe she would make it if she ran fast enough. 

It was time. She opened her eyes and crouched on the balls of her feet, ready to sprint. 

The dragon drew back to strike again, and the shadow thrust the spear toward its side. Before the blow stuck, the dragon twisted away, but the tip of the spear raked a deep gash into its side. The dragon screamed and spit fire and its wings threshed the ground, sending up a cloud of sand once more. 

There was her opening. 

She moved to launch herself forward as the dust swirled toward her hiding place, mentally counting down from five. 

_ Five. Four. _ A golden shimmer spread across the sky toward the gate. _ Three. Two. _ The shadow screamed again and the blitz of lightning strikes snapped in the air behind her. _ One. _

** _Tuatha em'an. Gara bre'durgalas. _ **

_ Go. _

She tensed her muscles and surged forward. Before she’d taken two steps, an arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her backward. She hissed and slammed her elbow back, trying to break the hold as she fell on top of her attacker. The arm loosened when they hit the ground together and in a flash, she had flipped herself over and was straddling his hips, her forearm against his throat. 

“Abelas.” She glared at him, breathing hard. He wasn’t even in his armor but wearing the sweater again. “What are you doing here?” Leaning down, she increased the pressure against his throat, keeping her advantage while she figured out her next move. 

The muscles corded in his neck and his eyes flicked over her face. With a quick roll of his hips, he unbalanced her and broke her hold. Before she could counter, he sat up and Nepenthe flung herself to the side, trying to get away and simply outrun him. He caught her arm, rising to his knees, and she swung wildly towards his jaw with her other fist. He blocked it and grabbed that wrist too. “Stay out of this,” she hissed. With a twist, Abelas pulled her down and spun her so that she was held against his chest, her arms crossed over her stomach with his locking them in place. She slammed her head back, but he avoided it and pressed his chin firmly into the side of her face, pinning her against his shoulder.

“I’m going through there,” she panted. “I’m not giving up.” 

“No, it appears you do not do that easily.” His voice was a low growl as she struggled to get loose and he tightened his grip on her. “But this is the wrong fight, Nepenthe. I am not your enemy. That is.” His chin jerked toward the arch and she used the movement to slam her head back again. 

She connected this time and he swore in elvhen before shifting his grip so one hand was around her throat. “I am trying to help you.”

“I don’t know _ what _ you’re trying to do-” she shouted then broke off as the golden glow in the sky drew toward the arch again. It touched the carved stonework and the pull dropped away. It was still there, but dampened, pushed down to the bottom of the ocean while she rose up, breaking the surface of the water to gasp a breath of air. She stopped struggling and, after a moment, he loosened his grip on her neck.

“How am I supposed to fight it in my mind?”

He relaxed at that, his hand sliding down her neck and coming to lay flat at the base of her throat. “You are not alone.”

Her heart clenched at the words, even as she didn’t quite believe them. “But are you really here?” She shifted in his arms, which felt solid enough, realizing, rather belatedly, that the battlefield had gone strangely silent and the fighting figures were gone. Only the soft hiss of blowing sand surrounded them. 

“I am here. And in the sky - that is my magic.”

She looked up. Of course. It was gold. Like his eyes.

“I am trying to block the blight magic’s effects, but it’s pushing my magic away.” He sounded calm, and tired, but his heart was hammering against her back. 

The golden shimmer held at the edge of the gate and if she squinted she could see the ripple of some force counteracting it. 

“It’s helping,” she said. “And if it covers the gate, that will cure it?”

He didn’t answer right away and her hopes sank. “I believe it will stop the pull you feel.”

She lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “It will give us time at least.” 

Another_ not today. _

He squeezed her wrist, and her pulse jumped to match his heartbeat. “We will find a solution. But I need your help to seal the gate.”

She nodded, though she was unsure what she could do if his magic was not enough. He released her as they got to their feet, but stayed close, his arm brushing hers. Ready to stop her if she tried to run again. 

Now that she knew what to look for, the edge of his magic was clear, as was the energy pushing it back. “You’re using the frequency thing, aren’t you?” 

He hummed his affirmation and she chewed the inside of her lip, watching a pulse ripple out from the arch. “When I set wards, it was hard, but in the end I had better luck with my way of working magic than with your frequency method.” 

She half expected him to protest that, but when he didn’t, she continued. “What if I made a drawstring? Something to pull your magic across.” 

Nepenthe turned to him and _ oh _ \- they were close. His cheek was dusty with the red sand and it would be easy to pretend she was just brushing it away if she ran her hand along his face. 

“Interesting.” It took him a moment to continue and she couldn’t tell if it was because of their proximity or because he was considering her proposal. “You think of magic as strings, don’t you? And so it responds as strings. Like the noose.” He nodded slowly, his eyes locked on hers. “That would work.”

His gaze flicked to her lips and a memory rose through her consciousness - laced with moonlight and the scent of campfire smoke, the burn of whisky down her throat, the taste of his mouth against hers. 

It would be a terrible idea to raise herself onto her toes, lift her chin, and close the distance between them. 

He brought his hand toward her face, fingers just brushing the edge of her ear when the call suddenly pushed upward and Abelas’s mental shield dropped. His aura rippled across her skin in a swirl of confusing emotions and she gasped. His head snapped toward the gate. He grabbed her shoulder and with his other hand, he reached out toward the arch. His magic pulled tight once more. The call and his aura both receded. 

She let out a shaky breath, her pulse pounding, as he turned to her and gave a brief nod. _ Fenedhis. _Apparently keeping his barrier in place required more effort than he was letting on.

“You should try that drawstring then,” he said in a clipped tone and dropped his hand from her shoulder. 

“Right.” She stepped away.

She raised a hand toward the arch and her magic sprang to her call - too much of it, a flash flood that rapidly overwhelmed her ability to cast.

“Oh, this is weird. It’s not… it’s coming too fast. I can’t work it this quickly.” The strands stretched and snapped as she pulled them. “Is it the blight magic?”

“I do not imagine it makes it easier.” 

He paused as she tried again, creating shimmering blue coils that quickly piled up and fell apart. “Have you ever cast in the Fade before?”

“No,” she admitted begrudgingly. “Not deliberately like this at least.”

He hummed next to her, a sound that indicated things were not going to be as easy as he’d hoped. “Magic functions similarly here to what it was like before the _ i’ve’an’aria_. If you are used to wading in a puddle, this may feel like swimming in an ocean.” 

“It’s just pulling too fast. I need a way to slow it down.” 

“Your magic will still do what you want it to. Focus on that. Focus here.” He tapped between her shoulder blades. “Ignore the blight magic. I will hold it back.”

“Kind of reminds me of the temple. Though I suppose I was trying to open something, not close it.” She tried pulling a series of even thinner strands, but the magic of the Fade overwhelmed them almost instantly. 

“And you were able to perform adequately there,” he said, still concentrating his attention on the barrier. 

She raised an eyebrow. “_Was _ I? Able to ‘perform adequately’?” 

“You would describe your performance differently, I take it.”

She shook out her fingers, releasing the magic. “I think you were _ very _ impressed that I managed it. You just,” she gestured around her face, “hid it well.”

“If you truly wish to see what I look like when I am impressed, then manage this.” He indicted the gate, then tightened his fingers as the shimmer of his magic wavered at the edge.

“Is that a promise?” She glanced at him, just long enough to see his eyebrow raise slightly, the hint of a smile on his lips. 

“Succeed here and it will be.”

“Alright.” She cracked her knuckles. “Well, maybe I can just use… more?” 

This time, as she reached for her magic, she consciously gathered _ more_. It reminded her of the fluffy hanks of wool that she’d sometimes spun into chunky thread to be used for knitting hats and scarves for winter.

Working quickly, she spun it out in a thick rope. It seemed to be working better, and when her magic touched the edge of his there was a brief hitch and then a bright white glow where they came together, like gears finding their slot.

At her side, he murmured some kind of encouragement that might have been in elvhen.

It was an effort to cast as quickly as the flow of magic demanded, almost like she needed to hold back a flood with her will alone, but the blue rope spooled out, smoothly attaching to the edge of his magic and weaving them together in a way that felt… right. 

“Why is this working so well? Why is it attaching like that?”

Out of the corner of her eye, he shrugged. “We have sympathetic magic.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

She hesitated a moment before replying, annoyed that there was another thing she was unaware of. “Meaning?

“Meaning you cast at a frequency that complements mine. They sync.”

She was more than halfway around the circle of his magic now, the flow of the magic starting to feel more manageable as she continued to spin it.

“You did not learn about frequency?” he asked slowly.

“Did you learn how to preserve fish so it lasts?” she retorted. “How to tell wild carrots from poison hartweed?” 

“Point taken. We learn what we need to know. Watch the thread there.”

She worked in silence for a moment, stretching out the section he’d indicated that was piling up, and watching the glow of their magic stitch together, a pull and a snap as it joined.

“Would you... like to learn about frequency?” he asked once she had it under control again.

“And in return?”

“It was an open offer.”

She snorted lightly. “No such thing, remember?” The thread began to pile up again, and she refocused, stretching it out again to keep ahead of the flow. “I think you miss teaching.”

He broke his attention away from the barrier briefly to look at her. “Why do you think that?” 

“You like being able to explain things. Mythal’s temple. The barrier. This.” She pointed toward the arch with her free hand.

“Perhaps you are right. Are you averse to me teaching you something?”

“Are you averse to _ me _ teaching _ you _ something?” she countered. “A trade is only fair. What could I teach you?”

The silence stretched between them. Sand collected around her feet, grains of it hissing softly against her leathers. Her cheeks began to burn, certain he was being arrogant and dismissive - that he couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted to learn from her. He shifted his weight and his sleeve brushed against her arm and she pulled hers away. 

“Teach me why you fight for your world.”

His answer landed like a punch to her gut and a retort died on her tongue. She glanced at him to see if he meant it and his expression was serious, almost sad. Her arm fell back to her side, her anger dissipating like dust into the wind.

“Ok... I can try,” was all she managed to say before her spell completed its circle around the inside of his, joining with a crack and a flash of light. 

And then there was a push against her magic. A force that churned against her will, stretching the boundaries of her circle. It was more than just the blight magic being contained - there was something else there - an echo, a powerful imprint of fear in the Fade. She realized too, that Abelas had been holding this much power back on his own. The reserves he had caught her unaware every time and she resolved to learn whatever she could from him that might help in the fight ahead.

The gate flickered and pulsed and the call surged upward into her mind again.

** _Tuatha em'an. Gara bre'durgalas._ **

Raw fear roared back and wrapped around her throat. “Shit,” she swore in a shaky voice.

“Can you hold it?” he asked tensely, moving closer to her side.

“I don’t know. It’s strong.” 

“I did not expect it to shift like that,” he muttered. 

She took a stumbling step toward the arch and he grabbed her, holding her against his side. “You can do this. Fight it.”

She pushed her feet into the sand, widening her stance, and let as much power flow through her as she could. It was nearly overwhelming, a deluge through her body and her mind, and she wrapped her arm around him to anchor herself. The force of his magic pressed on the edges of hers, helping to drive it toward the center. Closer. Closer.

“Now,” he whispered and she yanked on her magic as his slammed in from the side. There was a flash of light and a thunderous crack, and a cloud of dust rose around the base of the arch. When it cleared, a barrier stretched across the opening, a swirl of pearlescent blue and gold, shining like an oasis in the desert. Nepenthe watched it, wide eyed and suddenly exhausted. 

It seemed to be holding. She became acutely away of the press of her body against his and, with some reluctance, stepped out of his grasp. She blew out her breath and shook the tension out of her shoulders. “I guess I’d call that a success.”

Abelas was still staring toward the arch, standing stiff and straight, and she recognized his expression. She’d seen it on enough soldiers, had worn it herself, too, when black memories bubbled up, like pitch seeping into wounds.

“You okay? What is it?”

He stirred and glanced around quickly, then his expression smoothed into something softer. “We should make sure everything is working as expected in the waking world.”

He moved away and she started to follow him, when something caught her eye behind the barrier. It was difficult to see behind the swirl of their magic, but it looked like an enormous shadow. 

She called his name, but there was no answer and when she turned to look for him, the battle roared back around her - a cacophony of noise and blood and magic. 

Everything was chaos, but she spotted Abelas a few meters away. He was in his armor now, his hood thrown back and his arm wreathed in veilfire as he directed a spell toward a group of Andruil’s forces. Without warning, a large elf closed in from the side. He was wielding a kind of translucent bladed spear and swung it in an overhead arc toward Abelas’s head. She screamed a warning, trying to throw a barrier around him, but her magic refused to respond. Abelas saw the attack at the last moment, and dodged to the side. But the blow landed on his neck and the force of it dropped him to his knees. The elf pulled the blade away and a gush of blood followed it, the brightest thing in her vision.

_ No. _

She was running toward him when everything twisted and fell away.

* * *

Nepenthe did not wake gently. Her heart hammered in her chest and stars popped in her vision. She had to get to him. She had to... 

She struggled to rise onto her elbows and- And he was before her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, drawn and exhausted, looking at her. 

Alive.

“Did it work?” he asked.

Nepenthe was confused for a moment about what was real, the taste of dust still on her tongue, the flash of his blood a bright ribbon. Perhaps this was simply another trick of her mind, or some demon picking at the carrion bones of what was left of her sanity, what was left of herself.

She reached for him, then blinked at the blackened end of her arm. Right - that hand didn't exist in the waking world. She dropped it back down onto the bed. 

“Are you well?” He shifted closer, the bed creaking with his weight, and his knee brushed against her side. Somehow it was this small detail that helped bring her back. He was alive. Whatever that had been, it hadn’t been real.

“There was…” She shook her head and rubbed her mouth. “It’s nothing.” It was probably not unexpected that her mind had conjured some vision of losing him. After everything that she had lost. 

“Can you still sense the pull? The voices?” His eyes roamed over her face, like he was reading her, searching for something else lingering beneath her skin. 

She closed her eyes to double check, but she could already tell the difference - the blessed silence. Only the sigh of the wind around the cabin, the gentle rattle of a pane of glass, the slow draw of his breath. A log snapped in the fireplace and she opened her eyes.

“No - they’re gone. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Yes,” he insisted, “I did.”

It felt like she was made of glass and filled with sand, and if she were to crack, she would pour onto the ground and slip between the floorboards. Like an hourglass running out of time. 

She wanted to wrap her arms around him. She wanted to run outside and scream into the wind. She settled for something in between and, with a creaky groan from the bed, rose and crossed to the sink basin.

_You will lose him in one way or another,_ she thought. _He will die. Or he will leave for his duty. You cannot hold onto anything. All your efforts are scattered like ash to the wind._

_But he came back,_ she argued with herself as the sound of his footsteps approached behind her.

He was there at her side as she leaned over the basin, and suddenly that distance was unbearable. 

She caught him off guard as she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face into his chest, the material of his shirt soft and warm. Warmer still was the patch of his skin against her temple.

A beat and then he returned the embrace. Not holding her back from anything. Just... holding her and she allowed herself to sink against him.

He was murmuring something soft in Elvhen. She couldn’t quite catch the words as they flowed together, but his voice was soft and soothing, and he began to rub slow circles on her back - along the column of her neck, over her shoulder blades, down to her lower back. He avoided her sides. He still remembered she was ticklish there, as he’d discovered in the aravel.

“Nepenthe. Talk to me.” 

He said it quietly and - _dammit_ \- she could get used to the way his voice sounded when her ear was pressed against his chest, but the name on his lips was a barrier. Solas had done that - changing how he addressed her by the distance between them. 

“Am I Nepenthe now, and not molain?” she asked into his shirt.

He hesitated. Perhaps it had been unfair of her to put him on the spot. 

He pushed the hair away from her face, smoothing it back over her ear and a thrill followed the trace of his fingers. “What do you wish for me to call you?” 

There was something deeply suggestive in his tone and she wondered what Elvhen endearments he could whisper to her, his voice low and quiet. 

She swallowed, listening to the beat of his heart, the echoing thrum of her own. “Molain still works.”

“Molain…” He breathed it into her hair and she pressed closer, sliding her hand up his back, tracing along his spine, mapping his muscles under her palm. He drew away, just slightly, and she stopped, suddenly worried that she had read this all wrong. He'd healed her well enough, now he was going to go.

But he continued brushing her hair over her ear, until his fingers dropped lower, down her cheek to curl under her chin. He tipped her head up, his thumb resting by the corner of her mouth and her breath hitched. She could not look away from the curve of his lips, the sharp line of his jaw, the gold of his eyes pushed to a thin ring around dark pupils. 

She should say something. Anything. She opened her mouth to do that, and he dipped his head and kissed her and whatever she had been going to say was lost between their lips.

It was not the frenzied rush of their first kiss, desperation and desire in equal measure, something to hurry through before they thought better of it. This was a slow surrender, an affirmation that they were both still here, and she yielded to the soft insistence of his mouth, to the hard press of his body, to the certain drive of his desire, even as some part of her insisted it was still a mistake. But she couldn’t seem to break away, and instead she tipped her head to deepen the kiss. This was real, he was here, solid and present and smelling of woodsmoke. She wanted to hold onto this moment.

_ You cannot hold onto anything. _

_Let me try_, she told herself, that stubborn drive kicking in again, and wrapped her arms around his neck to draw him closer, opening her mouth to his tongue and the taste of him.

He was unhurried and thorough, breathing her in, his hand moving up her back to steady her as he claimed her mouth. A wave of desire surged through her when his fingers tangled in her hair and he pulled her hips against his thigh. She arched into him and he groaned and _ gods _ she wanted to chase that sound. 

He broke away, just looking at her, and for a brief moment, it was like she was seeing him with two sets of eyes - what was before her, darkened eyes and parted lips and hair slipping loose, _beautiful_, and what could be, like this was a memory she was recalling from some distant future where they were safe and together. 

She rose to her toes and pulled him down and kissed him again, her hand sliding from his neck to his jaw. _ Mistake, mistake, mistake_. But his skin was hot, his pulse racing under her palm as she followed it down his throat, an echo of the first time she healed him. She wanted to feel all of him, see all of him, discover all the places that left him aching under her touch. This was not enough. This was not _ nearly _ enough. She ran her hand under his shirt collar... And then she felt something that made her pause. A ridge bisecting his collarbone. 

She drew back, reluctantly, lips burning, and pushed his shirt open. There was a scar there, ancient, long healed into a white line. 

“Molain, what is it?” _ Oh, _ his voice was rough and it sent a shiver through her. “I apologize if I-” 

“No,” she interrupted. “Don’t apologize. It’s not that. That was...” She was nearly breathless, and flashed him a wry smile. “It’s not that.” 

_ Fenedhis _ \- what was she doing?

Her smile faded as she ran her finger along the scar, working to calm the storm inside her. “I saw you get this. After we sealed the gate.” She frowned. “Abelas, was that real?”

That haunted look came back into his eyes. “That was my memory.”

“All of it? Everything I saw?” Her heart hammered in her chest as he nodded. 

The things he had lived through. The memories he had from before recorded history. It made her chest ache. She pressed her hand against the scar, the gush of blood still vivid in her mind. “I saw you fall,” she whispered.

He must have seen some of her worry because he covered her hand with his own. “It happened a long time ago. It is not a memory I would have chosen to show you." His thumb traced slow circles over her knuckles. "I have better ones.” 

“What was that one?”

“The penultimate battle against the banallen. And the beginning of the end for Elvhenan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this ends in a bit of an awkward place, this was getting really long! I was going to end it where she sees Abelas fall but I didn’t want to leave you guys on another cliff. So I leave you on a kiss cliff instead! Next chapter will address more of Andruil and the orb and what comes next. (and the practicalities of seeking refuge in a snowy cabin with your "its complicated" partner.)  
That said! I have my major plot points laid out for the story, but if there's something I've brought up that you'd like to see or see more of, let me know! (Shirtless Abelas, yes definitely. Also, I haven't forgotten the bath house. Or potatoes. 😂) Elvhenan history? Magic? the skyhold gang? I can't promise I'll be able to work it in, but if you have thoughts, I'd love to hear them.
> 
> Hope you are all well and thank you as always for all the ways you interact with this story!
> 
> You can also [find me on Tumblr](https://serial-chillr.tumblr.com/).


	26. Selvage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously: Nepenthe got pulled into an ancient battle in the fade where she and Abelas worked together to put a temporary seal on the blight magic, she saw Abelas get injured right before she woke up, relief led to a kiss, and then she discovered the scar on his collarbone from the injury and realized it had all been his memory.
> 
> Note 9/27: Major chapter changes from the version published 9/20

“The penultimate battle against the banallen. And the beginning of the end for Elvhenan.”

He was a dream made real, standing before her. A survivor from a forgotten past, untethered in time. “The things you’ve seen,” she murmured, her fingers settling into a rhythm of their own, back and forth along his scar.

“You have seen war as well.”

“Yes, but that…'' 

He watched her quietly, and it was disorienting trying to grasp how he could have been there, and here - him, and an echo of him, softly layered - like the boundary between sea and sky on a cloudy day. His own words from before echoed in her mind: It can be real without being right. 

Her throat closed up as she slid her fingers down his chest, holding them over his heart for a moment before removing them. Gods - she was deluding herself that this would lead to anything but heartache. The kiss had been respite - a heady mix of relief that the call was blocked and that he was alive. But it was a fantasy. And there were ghosts on his lips.

His hand rested on her hip but he dropped it as she took a step back. “Something is bothering you,” he said. “Tell me.”

Her heart was still beating too fast and she looked away, out the window to where the snow fell through the blue light of early evening onto a world that was silent and heavy. Tree limbs covered in autumn leaves hung low under the weight of the snow and brushed against the ground. Only waiting for the light to burn away their burden so they could rise again.

Would this reality ever be enough for him? Or would it break before they found a way to exist in it together? 

“A past I never knew… is your life,” she tried to explain, but it felt inadequate. “I entered the Fade into a battle fought before recorded time and it was _ your _ memory.” 

He frowned, trying to understand. “You have seen my memories before. Of the temple.”

He was right, and that hadn’t upset her in quite the same way. She looked at him again, trying to find something besides his mouth, his eyes, his neck to concentrate on. The edge of his undershirt was frayed and she focused on that, wondering how long it had been in need of repair. Decades? Ages? Longer? How did material last while the Sentinels were in uthenera? Was there a spell, or did they have ways of preserving it? And now that she was looking, the stitching was different, tight even rows of a kind of double ladder stitch. Had clothes been sewn with magic? Maybe the fabric itself was magic and that's why it didn’t fall apart with age. Maybe-

“Is it about the injury?” he asked and she took a deep breath, pulled out of her spiraling thoughts. 

“I don’t know. Maybe?” She shrugged and shook her head. It was the injury and the history and the divide between her desire and her duty and the faint but powerful instinct for self-preservation.

“I got better,” he said with a soldier's penchant for glossing over the worst injuries, the darkest fears.

She gave him a small smile and the spiral of her anxiety loosened slightly. “Yes, I can see that.” 

To stop herself from reaching for him again, she picked up the cups on the table, tucking one under her arm as she moved to the sink. “I think - it made things feel very real. As opposed to stories that…” She sighed. “...were distant. There was a song I’d sing to Sylaise when I tended the cooking fire. A prayer to Andruil for a kill. These were just part of my life, our traditions. I didn’t think to question them. I certainly didn’t think of the creators as real people.” She dumped the cold tea into the basin and it ran out the spout through the wall. “Or as monsters.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Abelas trying to come up with a response, and she saved him the trouble. “That shadow was Andruil, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” he said, and seemed more confident to be back in familiar territory. “Corrupted. More powerful than anyone realized. And that was Mythal as a dragon. Three days they fought before Andruil was weakened enough for Mythal to take the knowledge of the Void.”

Even here, fear crawled back into the pit of Nepenthe’s stomach. “Is that where the gate led?”

He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. “It led into the deep places of the world, and Andruil’s red lyrium mines. Beyond that, I do not know.”

“Big gate for elves mining red lyrium.”

“It was not only elves that Andruil bound to her will,” he explained. “There were other creatures as well. Dark things she found in the deep. And things that had been created for her.”

“By Ghilan’nain?” 

He hummed his assent. 

_ The halla guide our People, and never lead us astray, for they listen to the voice of Ghilan'nain. _

Another lie. Another horrible truth he had lived through.

Nepenthe picked at a tea leaf on the rim of a cup. “All of this - it’s a lot.”

“Too much?” he asked quietly, and she got the impression he was asking about more than the history.

She should say yes, let it be over between them. Instead she shook her head. “No, not too much. Just a lot.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, the pressure of a headache building. He was at her side in an instant.

“Is it coming back? The call?” The anxiety in his voice was barely contained.

“No. No, it seems to be holding.” She held up her hand, studying her palm, as if she could excise the blight magic by focus alone. “But it’s in there, isn’t it? And the Sentinels can still track me?”

“Yes - the signal is blocked in your mind only.”

Damn. It had been too much to hope. She wondered if her spellcasting would still be affected by the blight magic - something to check before it was put to the test. “So we should be ready.” 

He nodded. “Agreed. I will reinforce the barrier while you locate the food?”

“Do you have to go far for that?” she asked, suddenly worried for his safety. _ Foolish. _

He crossed the room to where his armor was arranged neatly next to the bed. “No, only to the edge of the clearing. It will not take long.” He began to put on his greaves. “Is anyone else likely to come along?”

“To use the safe house? Not likely in this weather.”

“Then I will set a few extra precautionary measures as well,” he said and picked up his vambrace.

He put on armor like an old habit - precise, fluid, quick but not frantic. Strange though, his armor was piled on the floor, but nothing else was. In fact, she could not remember seeing his pack since they’d arrived. She glanced around the room again. There really wasn’t anywhere to hide it in here, unless he’d stashed it somewhere in the latrine, accessible from a door in the back, but it was a tiny space and she hadn’t seen any sign of it when she’d gone in earlier. 

“Do you have any supplies we could use, just in case?” she asked, hoping for casual, sounding worried.

He cinched a buckle. “I no longer have much. Do you?”

“A few things, if it comes to that.” 

He would walk down the hill, recover his pack and the orb, and disappear. He was just waiting for the right moment. She chewed the inside of her cheek and opened the chest to make sure she hadn’t overlooked it earlier. Nothing but blankets and a book about Thedosian myths that she put onto the bed. She closed the trunk and watched him attach his vambrace with quick, certain movements. 

“Abelas, where’s your pack?”

He paused, just a fraction of a second, before resuming his task. “In a safe location.”

“In here?” she pressed.

There was nothing but the sound of armor being fastened for several seconds. “Why do you need to know?”

She squared her shoulders, anxiety scratching under her skin. “People do unexpected things when it comes to orbs.” 

“Yes they do.” He jerked his breastplate into place with more force than was needed and she wasn’t sure if he was thinking of his actions, hers, or something else entirely. “Come with me, we can set the barrier together.”

She considered her options. If she went, it would only prove she didn’t trust him at all. _ Unclear. _ And if he truly wanted to leave, he could easily overpower her anyway. _ Ineffective. _No, she’d need to extend him this grace. “You go. I can manage the food.”

“Then I will see you momentarily,” he clipped out, vaguely annoyed, and she wasn’t sure how they’d found themselves on such uneven ground. Had he wanted her to go with him? Either way, it was too late to change her mind, he was already closing the door behind him.

Nepenthe waited until he was partway down the hill before she began searching for his pack, the drive to confirm that it was here and that the orb was secure overriding everything else. But a thorough inspection of the room, the cabinets, and the latrine turned up nothing. It must be someplace outside. Maybe where the firewood was stored. She glanced out the window, debating if she should try to search more, but he was already coming up the hill, a faint silhouette walking easily on a Fade pathway above the snow. 

He was coming back. 

Again. 

She shouldn’t feel such a twist of relief. She shouldn’t notice the way he moved, like a fighter. She shouldn’t think about shared kisses and spending at least one night in a cabin with him - the potential for finding solace in the soft shadows of each other.

She _ should _ find the food.

Hurrying to the left of the fireplace, she stamped on the floor. None of the boards sounded promising. _ Wait, no. To the right. Gods, Leliana would be disappointed. _ She grabbed one of the fireplace tools and checked the other side. There. A loose one. 

She was prying up the end of the board when he came in, brushed the snow off his arms and pushed the door shut. “What are your plans for the orb?” he asked without preamble. 

She paused with the board halfway removed. The question had caught her off guard, though she should have been prepared for it to come up. She frowned. “What are _ your _ plans for the orb?” 

“No,” he said firmly. “This is my question. The one you owe me. What are you planning to do with it?”

With a creak, the board came out of the floor, and she placed it against the wall, buying time, her heart in her throat. “Not destroy the world, I guess. Keep it away from Solas. Beyond that…” She shrugged. “I don’t know.” 

He strode over to her, something calculating in his expression. “You went all the way to the temple to steal it, you carried it in your pack for days as Sentinels attacked us, and you have no plans for it?”

The truth of why he hid his pack struck her like a blow and she got to her feet. “You don’t trust _ me _ with it.” 

“As you said, people do unexpected things when it comes to orbs.”

“Abelas, I didn’t know it was at the temple. I didn’t even know the _ temple _ was there for sure. When we ran into each other, it was only because I was following _ you _ at that point. It was dumb luck I found the orb, and beyond trying to get it back to Skyhold, and keeping it safe, I hadn’t really thought about what I’d do with it.”

He regarded her levelly in the rapidly fading light. “You did not think to use it?” 

She held her anger, and disbelief, in check - the idea that she could do anything with the orb was absurd. “When the other one was unlocked, it blew up half a mountain, killed a lot of people, and tore a hole into the Fade that started pulling through demons. If I hadn’t gotten the mark at the same time, the Breach would have expanded until the world was an abomination. No, I didn’t think to use it.” As she spoke the words, she realized it was true. She’d never even made a tentative plan for the orb. 

His eyes flicked quickly to her arm and then back to her face. “And if it could be used without that kind of result?”

Was this a test, or was he suggesting that it could be? If it was the latter, it might tip the scales against Solas, or even be used for a better purpose. She imagined herself holding the orb, wreathed in Veilfire, as armies spread out before her and she turned her eye to the injustices in the world. A ruler that would bring balance, punish those in power and lift up those with none, benevolent and beloved.

She blinked and she was back in the dim cabin, with Abelas watching her carefully. “I would be wary of anyone trying to use that kind of power,” she said and wiped her hand against her thigh, imagining she could still feel the thrash of the orb against her palm. It wasn’t exactly a direct answer and she was guiltily aware of that fact. “Would _ you _ try to use it?”

“No,” he said without hesitating. “I wish the orbs had never been created.”

There was a history there and she made a note to ask about it later. “Is that why you didn’t bring it to Solas?”

The firelight flickered on his face as a drop of melting snow ran down his temple. “I have concerns, yes.”

She held her breath for a second, her eyes locked on his. _ Don’t you dare assume too much, _ she told herself. _ Having concerns is not the same as changing his mind. _ Still, it was something. It was a start. 

“So we’re in agreement there,” she said cautiously. “Keep the orb hidden until...” She trailed off, raising her shoulders in a silent question.

“Until we learn more. Until we see what the future may bring.”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Their gaze held in the darkness, all breath, and skin tingling, and anticipation. And another question sat heavy on her tongue, a stone shaped like hope. 

_ Will you stay? _

He looked away first. “I am getting water all over the floor.”

She fought back her disappointment as the moment passed - the question unasked, the answer unknown. Abelas stepped away and with a gesture, the water turned to steam that brushed, hot, over her skin and she fought down a shiver. 

He began to remove his armor in the shadows by the bed once more. 

Instead of watching, she knelt and conjured a small yellow magelight before pulling off a second loose board and then lifting the wooden supply canister out of the hole by its rope handle. Halfway to the table she stopped, unsure if she’d ever properly conveyed her gratitude. With words, and not her tongue anyway. “Abelas, I know staying with me puts you in danger. Don’t think I don’t realize that. Or appreciate it. I do.”

He paused, his face in shadows. “And I should have spoken to you about the orb when I found it.”

An apology, and she took it as such. “It might have saved some confusion. But I understand why you did it.” 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. 

She continued to the table and placed the container on top, picking at the end of the fraying handle. “Joking aside, I owe you my life.”

Gold eyes met hers as he shrugged off his chest plate. “It has been a worthy endeavor so far, molain.” There was a veneer of levity layered over something more serious in his tone and warmth bloomed in her chest unbidden.

“Only worth it so far?” she shot back, choosing the levity over the deeper conversation. “I’ll try to remain in your good graces then.”

That earned her a crooked smirk as she pulled off the lid. Peering inside, she couldn’t help the slow smile that spread across her face. Potatoes. Nestled in amongst the jars of dried beans and nuts were several potatoes.

“Abelas, could you help me remember an Elvhen word?”

“With pleasure,” he said over his shoulder as he placed the last piece of his armor onto the floor.

“It’s the name of something that’s brown, about the size of a large mushroom. There’s some debate over the best way to cook them, but it’s definitely baking them-” She broke off as he came to her side in a rush, her smile turning into laughter at his groaned, “Oh, molain.”

He took one out of the container, weighing it in his palm, then pulled her against him with his other arm, surprising her by planting a kiss on the top of her head. It was easy, effortless, a glimpse of the man under the rigid demands of duty, and as she grinned into his shirt, she was filled with a glowing lightness - a feeling she recognized as a sign that she cared for him entirely too much.

* * *

“I admit these were good, molain, but still not-”

“_Don’t _ say not as good as fried,” she warned him with a smile. “These were excellent.” 

She handed him her plate and he placed it on the floor beside his own before licking his thumb and settling back on the mattress. At her suggestion, they’d pulled it off the bed and moved it in front of the fireplace because it was more comfortable while they waited for the potatoes to cook. Now he seemed content to stretch out in the heat from the fire and from the glyph he’d insisted on placing under the mattress. He was, by far, the most relaxed she’d seen him. It was difficult to reconcile the man she’d met at the temple and the man stretched out next to her with his feet bare, and his shirt sleeves rolled up, propped on one elbow.

“You lose a delicious part of it though. Look at the outside - completely inedible.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. 

She had cooked them in the way she’d done at home, sticking them into the edge of the coals until the outside was blackened and charred and the inside was creamy. They’d split them open, adding a drizzle of oil and a sprinkle of salt and herbs from her pack, and eaten them with a spoon. 

“That’s not entirely true,” she said. “You _ can _ eat the skin. I used to eat it when I was a kid.” A flashed memory of fishing potatoes out of the coals and wrapping them in leaves to protect her fingers as she ate them burning hot, breathing around bites that scalded her mouth, autumn air sharp on her tongue.

He made a face and groaned. “No, this is... It’s not possible. Are you joking?”

She laughed. “No, I really did. We called them _ tertunen_. Covered the outside with salt and oil, and ate them right out of the fire.” 

He looked at her skeptically and she reached over him, breast brushing against his thigh, to grab a piece of the burnt potato skin off her plate and stubbornly prove a point.

With a glance to make sure he was watching, she popped it in her mouth. 

_ Gods, it was like eating charcoal. _How had she ever done this? She tried to keep a straight face as she choked it down then rinsed her mouth out with a swig from her flask. “See? Good.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Mmm, looked like it.” 

“Try for yourself?” she challenged, leaning over to break off another small piece and hold it out to him.

“No, no, no. I will leave that to you, molain, since you enjoy it so much.”

His face was guileless, but there was a slight crinkle in the corner of his eyes, waiting in amused anticipation to see what she would do. She hadn’t really expected he would take her up on it, but now she had to decide which would be more unpleasant, eating more ash or admitting he might have a point. 

Nepenthe licked her lip and his gaze dropped to her mouth. Well, if she was going to suffer, so was he, and she made a show of opening her mouth and putting the charred peel on her tongue before chewing it. “Mmm, still so good.” 

She licked the ash off a finger then, as his expression shifted from amusement to an extremely focused attention, she drew it out of her mouth, feeling reckless and too bold for her own good seeing how even this small gesture affected him. With careful deliberation, she put her next finger between her lips and pulled it out slowly with a quiet pop at the end. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but she was fairly certain his cheekbones darkened in a flush and an answering heat spread through her body that had nothing to do with the fire. _ Foolish. _“You sure you don’t want any?”

He cleared his throat. “_Tua na’druast_.”

She tried to translate it but couldn’t get beyond _ tua _ which could have several different interpretations based on context. “What does that mean?”

He rubbed his mouth, and he might have been covering a smile. “It is hard to explain. There may not be an exact translation - maybe a misuse of something sacred.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Something sacred?” Solas hadn’t seemed to have any particular restrictions about the activities he engaged in, but maybe it was different for Sentinels. She hadn’t actually thought to ask, but it was irrelevant, because this wasn’t going further than a few ill considered kisses, despite the…downward...trajectory of her thoughts.

He shifted on the mattress and she swore it wasn’t an accident the way he lifted his hips slightly to do so. “I mean the potatoes, of course, molain. How can you do this to our favorite food?” 

She gave an appreciative snort. _ Not an exact translation, my ass. _ “I never said potatoes were my favorite.” 

“What is then?” He began to untie the lace on his braid.

Nepenthe veered away from an exceptionally crude answer that sprang to mind and answered truthfully. “Really crusty bread. Hot from the oven.”

His fingers paused in his hair. “You did not have it until you were the Inquisitor.”

She looked at him, surprised. “You remember that?” It felt like months had passed since their first night together in Andruil’s temple. “We didn’t have the right ovens to bake it growing up.” And since she’d said that much, she decided to keep going. “I’d pass bakeries in Ansburg, the biggest town nearby, when we went there to trade, but it seemed like an unnecessary indulgence. I saved my money for books instead. I would have liked this one a lot back then.” She gestured to the book of Thedas myths that lay open on the mattress next to her. 

She’d read some of the stories to him as they waited for the potatoes to cook - tales about cunning tricksters outwitting evil kings, and queens toppled by their own lust for power, and one about a magical red thread that always allowed the bearer to find their way home that she had found unexpectedly moving.

“What else did you like?” He’d finished undoing his braid as she spoke and now he ran his fingers along his scalp and shook his hair out, and it was distracting.

She could tell him about her mother’s cooking, or her father’s singing, or the way the flax fields smelled in the morning, or the comforting weight of a drop spindle. But she wasn’t ready. 

There were ghosts on his lips, and she was a graveyard.

She swallowed thickly, a familiar ache in her chest. “I liked learning magic. Will you teach me a spell?” she asked abruptly, anything to redirect the flow of their conversation.

He seemed about to argue but instead tipped his head. “I suppose it would be wise to test your magic with the barrier in place. We can start with something small.” He leaned closer. “_Tell me _ if anything starts to feel wrong.”

She nodded and then waited while he studied the fire. 

“A better binding spell.”

She smiled. “Alright.” He’d probably been waiting for the opportunity since he’d told her at the temple that her binding spells needed work, but she decided not to mention it.

He sat up and crossed his legs, motioning for her to do the same. “Show me what you do currently and bind my hand.” He held it out, palm up between them, his long, elegant fingers gently splayed.

She pulled for her magic, the strings vibrated in response, and with a flick of her wrist, she released it to weave around his hand. 

His elbow jerked as he tried to move his hand, but it remained frozen between them, tethered to the energy of the Fade. “How did that feel?” he asked. “Any different from usual?”

“No, it was fine. Really,” she insisted at his concerned expression.

He acquiesced with a nod. “Let’s keep going then. Your spell is strong, but your cast is loose, which means that there are many more opportunities for an opponent to dispel it.” His magic hummed and an instant later he flexed his fingers. 

It was like her spell had never been there. 

“Try again,” he instructed, “and this time, rather than thinking of it as something you are weaving, think of it as the whole cloth. Something impenetrable.”

It felt strangely intimate to realize he understood how she was visualizing the spell, and that he was able to translate the instructions into her own spell working language. 

He held his hand out again, and she narrowed her eyes, trying to imagine the spell as a solid form, before casting the binding once more. 

“Better,” he nodded. “It is tighter, but not solid.” 

A few attempts later, and it still wasn’t quite working. She moved to cast again, and he stopped her. “Here, let us do something else. Try to hit me.”

She looked at him skeptically. “You want me to hit you?”

“I want you to try,” he corrected with a slight lift of his lips.

She winced as she recalled slamming her head back into him in the Fade. “Sorry about your chin earlier.”

He waved the apology away. “You were not yourself. Now try.”

She frowned. “It’ll be too easy to stop me while we’re sitting.”

With a look of mild exasperation that made her grin, he got to his feet and waited for her to join him in a clear spot next to the table. 

As she approached, she feinted left and swung toward his shoulder, in case she did land the blow.

She needn’t have worried. Her arm was frozen mid-swing, the grip of his binding spell tight against her skin.

“Can you feel that?” he asked. “The shape of it? The energy?”

She concentrated on his magic along her raised arm - the slight vibration, the density, the weight. If her binding spells were like a net, this was like water. “I can sense it,” she confirmed. “I remember it, in fact.”

How much had changed between them since the first time she’d been caught in one of his binding spells. All those small steps that had led them to this - this almost trust, this hesitant closeness, this delicate tether between them.

“And I recall that putrid mud is considered an aphrodisiac,” he said mildly.

She bit back a smile, laughter held like honey on her tongue, and could feel the color rise in her cheeks. Hopefully it would just look like exertion. “Next lesson is getting _ out _ of binding spells,” she said.

“Always so hasty,” he admonished. “First though, see if you can match this.” He gestured toward her arm and held his hand out again.

She focused on the feel of his magic, noting the frequency more than the construction method, and worked to recreate it. This time, she cast by letting the magic flow through her rather than pulling it, though she couldn’t help wonder what would happen if they combined their methods. 

With a faint snap, his hand was encased in a solid binding, but it was thin and brittle, like a sheet of ice.

“Good,” he said, pleased, and she returned his small smile, that careful, heartbreaking hope tucked in the corners of his mouth. “Again,” he instructed, and released her arm.

They repeated the exercise until she’d produced a respectable approximation of his binding spell, varying the technique so that sometimes he was holding his hand still and other times moving it.

“Good. This is good. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Let’s keep going. I need to be able to stop something more than a hand.”

“One more exercise then.” He moved to the opposite end of the room and quickly tied his hair back. “I am going to walk toward you,” he explained. “Stop me.”

She swallowed as he began striding toward her and cast too quickly - it was loose and he easily dispelled it. To put more distance between them, she hurried back toward the wall and tried again. It was better than her first effort, and he slowed momentarily, looking like he was pushing his way through water. Then with a roll of his shoulders, he threw it off.

“Focus, molain.”

Fuck. It was increasingly hard to do that with the way he was looking at her. Her back hit the wall and he was nearly upon her. She reached for _ more, _let the magic pool, but instead of building the barrier, something stretched inside her mind. With a gasp, she stopped casting immediately and sagged against the wall, heart racing. 

He caught her elbow, obviously aware something was wrong. “Too much?” His eyes flicked anxiously over her face and she nodded mutely.

“Too much,” she whispered around ragged breaths. “The barrier is still holding, but I can’t draw that much from the Fade.” She pulled anxiously at the cuff in her ear. “This might be a short lived reprieve if I can’t even defend myself with magic.”

He studied her face, still close. “We should look to the next option.”

“The next option being Solas,” she said flatly.

He shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I know that you have your concerns about this, but you and he have a… a relationship, do you not?” 

She’d assumed Abelas would be familiar with the broad strokes of their history, that Solas would have told him something, but maybe not. Or maybe he needed to hear it from her.

She moved away and sat back down on the mattress, watching the flames lick along a log. A relationship. A ruin.

A beat and then he joined her, though he sat farther away than before.

“We used to. And then it ended - long before I found out who he truly was. We’d found our way to a... friendship, of sorts though. Before he left.” 

_ Harden your heart to a cutting edge. _

“I thought he was dead for a while. I thought he must be, when he left and we didn’t hear from him for so long.” She took a shaky breath and shrugged. “As for where we are now? He knows I don’t agree with what he’s planning, and that I’m going to try to stop him. I have my doubts he would help me at all.” 

“He would help you.” He said with such certainty she wanted to clench her teeth around the words and rip them apart. 

_ The way Solas crouched to help an injured human when they arrived at the Crossroads. The way he held a dying soldier’s hand. The way he argued for the rights of the most oppressed. _

_ The way he helped stop a Qunari plot to overthrow southern Thedas. _

What did it mean that he could still care? That he could still try to stop suffering when he saw it? It would be easier if she hated him. 

_ Harden your heart to a cutting edge. _

Gods, she’d tried and the blade had only sliced her chest first, a biting pain in a soft place.

_ There is still time. _

_ “If _ I’m going to do that,” she finally declared, “and I’m not saying I am, then I need to learn how to control my aura in the fade. Unless you have another way for me to get in touch with him.”

Abelas added another log to the fire, though it didn’t really need one. “If he treats you,” he said quietly over his shoulder, “he will be able to tell that I helped put that barrier in place.”

She looked at him sharply. “How will he know it’s you specifically?”

“If you know what to look for, magic is like a fingerprint, everyone’s imprint is slightly distinct.” He adjusted the log and she watched his back, and the tension he held there.

It was another layer of risk he’d assumed by helping her and she ground her teeth in frustration that she hadn’t even realized it. “And since he doesn’t know about our... association...” The word so inadequately described their situation that she nearly laughed, an urge borne of desperation more than humor. 

“We need a plausible story before we do… anything,” he finished. 

It felt like they were on the edge of some precipice - that there was a reason Abelas was approaching the conversation in this careful way, even though she wasn’t sure what it was. Don’t hope for more, she reminded herself, but took the plunge anyway.

“You said earlier that you had concerns.” She licked her lips. “How serious are those concerns?”

Minutes passed as he slowly stirred the fire, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney, and she began to think he wasn’t going to answer. Then his chest rose in a deep inhale.

“I have seen one world end. That battle was a tipping point. Mythal stopped Andruil but it left her weakened and in possession of knowledge that made the other Evanuris suspicious and jealous. They moved against her and in the aftermath of her death, everything unraveled. Alliances were formed and broken, negotiations dissolved into strife, rumors and lies spread, and the Evanuris tightened their hold on their power and their people. It was years of escalating turmoil. Until Fen’Harel raised the i’ve’an’aria to seal them away. And that was the end.” 

He shook his head and his hair slipped back over his shoulders. “I have not thought about that battle for a long time. Seeing it again, I wonder if there were any one of a hundred small things that could have prevented the eventual loss of my world.”

With a sigh, he hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees, and she hesitantly reached for him, placing her hand between his shoulder blades. It was a small comfort, a drop in a well of bottomless pain, but she knew that sometimes a drop made a difference. At her touch, his shoulders lowered, and after a moment he continued.

“I have felt the shape of death, and it is vast.” His voice wavered, dipped at the end, grief held back.

She rubbed his back in slow circles, swallowing around the tightness in her own throat. 

“I have lived with sorrow for so long, I forgot there was anything else. I wake with it in my mouth like ashes, and I slip through my day with it stretched around holes inside me, and I sleep with it pressed against my eyes. But lately… sorrow is not all there is.” He shifted to look at her. “There is kindness, too.”

Her heart lurched and her hand froze against the back of his neck and she knew her face was showing every emotion, all of her empathy, her grief, her hope.

“I thought duty would be enough to keep going,” he said, like the words cost him. “But now-”

“There are other choices,” she whispered in the space between them, curling her fingers against the nape of his neck. “You can make a change.”

Abelas looked down and she worried she’d said it wrong, that even now, she wouldn’t find the right words. The words to convince him to stay. 

He met her eyes again, a muscle working in his jaw. Oh. _ Oh. _He was waiting for her to ask him. He’d been waiting when they spoke about the orb. Maybe even waiting before that. Both of them waiting on the other.

“Stay,” she breathed, before she could pull back, an invocation in a single syllable.

His nostrils flared slightly as he exhaled, his eyes flickering with some unnamed emotion. “It will not be so simple. I cannot walk away without repercussions. I may not be able to walk away with my life.”

She shifted closer. “You don’t have to do it on your own. We can find a way together.”

Her pulse and the cracking of the fire were all she could hear and after a moment she began speaking again to fill the silence. “I know there’s still a lot to figure out - I’m not overlooking your end wishes. And I don’t mean to underestimate what Solas could do, but I’m sure we can manage something if we have a bit more time. And it... it doesn’t have to be…” She faltered and dropped her hand from his neck. “I mean, we don’t have to-”

“Alright,” he interrupted.

She snapped her mouth shut and blinked up at him. “Alright?”

“We can make a plan.” He nodded, like he’d surprised himself, and his eyes couldn’t settle, flicking between her eyes and her lips and her hair. He suddenly cupped her face in his hands and rested their foreheads together and she wrapped her arms around him, burying her fingers in his hair. They stayed that way for a moment, eyes closed and too-fast breaths and a kind of desperation in his grip, before he drew back. “First we should rest, molain.”

“Right. Okay. Yes.” She released him and swallowed back the flood of questions, sensing that this was as much to give himself time to process this as a need to be prepared for the Sentinels inevitable arrival.

Maybe it would be best if they slept separately, to keep things less complicated. She leaned across the mattress towards her pack. “I’ll take the bedroll.”

“Molain.”

She paused with her hand on the strap.

“You could stay.”

She should not. She could already see how things would unfold - a comforting touch would lead to quiet passion and a moment of shuddered respite in the dark. There was too much on the line to let her personal feelings interfere with their best chance of stopping Solas. Or to become blind to the risk of letting Abelas get closer.

Nepenthe looked back over her shoulder. There was a soft vulnerability in his expression before he tucked it away again, and somehow it was enough to sway her. She nodded, and returned to lay down next to him, aware of every point where their bodies touched. 

As he drew up the blanket, she remembered a time in Orlais when she’d watched an artist repair a bowl by fusing the broken pieces back together with copper, leaving a shining, visible seam between the shards. It felt like that when he pulled her against his chest. Like she was melting. Or maybe mending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve’an’aria = the Veil
> 
> Apologies for having to redo this chapter, I'm much happier with it, hope you enjoyed as well!  
They're having feeeeeeeeeelings! 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and your comments! 💚💚💚


	27. Defensive Positions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously on: Abelas and Nepenthe finally discussed the orb, had some roasted potatoes, practiced a little magic until Nepenthe realized the barrier over the blight magic would falter if she used too much, and Abelas agreed to stay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that chapter 26 was heavily edited from when it was originally posted. If you haven’t read the updated version, you may want to do that before going on!

The ravens fluttered and cackled fitfully as Dagna waited for Leliana’s response.

“You’re positive?” the Spymaster finally said, setting the page of notes aside and steepling her hands on her desk.

Dagna shifted her weight and spread her hands. “Well, it’s hard to say anything with total certainty when you’re working with theoretical magic and a hypothesis that has to rely on readings from a device you created yourself just to measure the rate of-”

Leliana cleared her throat and Dagna pursed her lips together. “I’ve checked everything three times... I keep getting the same result.”

Wordlessly, Leliana pushed her chair back, and strode to the window. She squinted at the scar of the Breach, as if it was responsible for their current predicament. “And you’re certain, or _ confident _ anyway,” she quickly amended as Dagna opened her mouth, “that it’s not simply interference from the Breach?”

Dagna shrugged. “It could be? That’s the other reason I came. If we could talk to Dorian, he might be able to take a reading in Minrathous. No Breach, no interference. I mean, first he’d have to build the apparatus, but he’d probably be able to get everything he needs and I can always talk him through the way it’s constructed. It’s not really that complex once you know what you’re looking at.”

Leliana spun on her heel. “I’ll activate the crystal.”

* * *

The pattern of Nepenthe’s dreams - a woven lattice of saffron and honey - had become distinctly recognizable when her mind brushed against his in the Fade. Abelas was considering whether the brush had been deliberate or accidental when he sensed the rune, a ringing pulse that vibrated against his aura. 

Fen’Harel had left him a message.

It was not unexpected, though it did send a twist of anxiety to his stomach. His report must have been delivered by now, and his continued silence had been noted. With a deep breath, Abelas reinforced the barrier around her dreaming mind - let her sleep peacefully at least - then carefully drew in his aura and tried not to think about the fact that she was currently sleeping in his arms. It was unlikely, but there could be others present at the retrieval location.

A vague impression of an open field dotted with white flowers filtered through the rune’s vibrations and as he concentrated on it, the Fade shifted around him to match the location. A quick glance around confirmed he was alone. At the center of the field rose a large boulder and when he inspected it more closely, he found a smaller stone by the base of it, unremarkable except for the magic pulsing off it. He picked it up and turned it over, revealing the rune underneath. A clever bit of magic that allowed those most adept at navigating the Fade to communicate, even when they could not both be present. It was usually a convenience to be among the few of Fen’Harel’s agents who could manage it, but right now he would have preferred a less efficient method.

Pressing his finger to the stone, he spoke the password, and with a soft green glow, the rune activated. Fen’Harel’s message echoed in his mind. 

_ Abelas, report. Confirm your current location and status. _

He spoke calmly. Likely, this was simply a routine check in that had come at an inopportune time. Still, in his current mental state, this was far better than meeting the Wolf face-to-face. Abelas rubbed his chin, then slowly dropped his hand. Though he seemed to be alone, this location might be monitored. If so, not only would it be wise to look composed, he’d also need to leave a message in return or risk raising suspicions.

He made a show of starting to draw a rune, tracing over the surface of the stone without yet imprinting. 

He could say he was tracking the Sentinels on the suspicion that they were heading toward another of Andruil’s hidden sanctuaries. Possibly one with something more valuable worth protecting. And since they were bound to intercept Nepenthe at some point, it would provide an explanation for how he’d found her again. And how he happened to attempt to heal her. As long as they killed all of the Sentinels, there would be no way to disprove his story. Questions would be raised about why he hadn’t tried to keep one alive but that could probably be explained away with the unpredictability of combat. As long as everything went according to plan.

With a wash of magic, he wove his message into the rune.

_ Closing in on Andruil’s Sentinels south of the telban’av'ingala [Frostbacks]. Suspect they may be heading to a second of Andruil’s temples. Planning to track, not engage. _

He sealed the rune and replaced it by the base of the boulder, hoping that by saying he was tracking only, it would explain why he hadn’t waited for, or requested, additional help. 

It would have to be enough until they could come up with a more solid plan. As the Fade reformed, he realized he hadn’t taken into account the fact that Fen’Harel could be visiting her dreams.

~~~

The fire had dwindled overnight, leaving his nose and the tips of his ears cold, but the glyph against his back was warm, and warmer still was her body pressed against his side. Sharing a bed had been an infrequent occurrence before the i’ve’an’aria and even more rare afterward. And this? After the loss of the vir’abelasan, he never would have expected to eventually end up like this. With the catalyst of his duty’s destruction sleeping by his side. But it was not unpleasant. Or unwelcome. A softness that seeped into him like mist into a valley.

A slice of clear blue sky was visible through the frosted panes of the windows, but he couldn’t see how much snow had accumulated without sitting up and waking her. He’d have to do that soon though to start his morning routine and prepare for the eventual arrival of the Sentinels now that the storm had stopped.

Slow breaths. Freckles on her bare shoulder where the blanket had slipped off.

_ Stay. _A single word whispered in the darkness. Was that all it took to sway him from a millennia of service? 

It was more than that, he admonished himself, studying the construction of the roof. Whatever his feelings might be toward her, there were also the indisputable facts of Mythal’s deliberate absence, Fen’Harel’s unchecked accumulation of power, and the lingering questions about the fate this world deserved and the potential spread of the blight. More than enough to warrant a reassessment of the situation. 

Hair that smelled like lavender, parted lips, a kind heart.

_ Stay. _

He would get up shortly. It was wise to stick to a routine - he’d kept one even after the vir’abelasan had been taken. Exercise. Breakfast. Morning rites to Mythal. Cleaning. Meditation. Hunting. Dinner. Evening rites to Mythal. Sleep. 

Again and again and again.

Stuck in the past. 

But Abelas felt the weight of the present now - in the pressure of her leg slung over his thigh and in the heat of her hand on his chest, her fingers slipped just inside his collar, warm against his bare skin. He felt it in the swift flow of time and the changes in the world, in the Dalish people that still survived, in the questions he had about what else he was missing.

He would get up shortly. When she woke. This unlooked for peace would keep a moment longer.

Just as his eyes slid closed again, a rapid tapping echoed through the cabin. He was immediately on alert, eyes snapping open and half sitting up, a spell already crackling in his palm. Nepenthe stirred beside him and rolled onto her back.

“What is that?” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth and searched for the source of the sound - it wasn’t coming from the door, but higher up. 

She sat up to listen, then groaned and flopped back onto the mattress. “Just a woodpecker.”

He let the spell dissipate. Whatever it was, she wasn’t concerned. 

“A bird,” she clarified. Apparently he’d let his confusion show.

“Ah.” The peace shattered, Abelas got up and began to make tea again. It would be terrible, but sometimes terrible was better than nothing. With the kettle filled with an ice spell and beginning to heat on a fire glyph, he leaned back against the counter. The woodpecker - an apt name - continued its assault on the roof as he braided his hair, watching her stretch in bed. “The birds in the temple used to wake me as well.” 

“Before or after?” she yawned, and rubbed her eyes. 

“After. They roosted in the arches, squawked at everything, made a mess of the floors.” He shook his head, remembering the lengths he’d gone to trying to keep the temple clean. “I even attempted to train them to stay out of certain areas.”

“Did it work?” she asked, shifting onto her side and tucking up her knees. Interested in this mundane detail of his life.

“No. They simply took to following me everywhere I went,” he said as he tied off the end of his hair.

She watched him quietly for a moment before a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “You made friends with birds.”

He pursed his lips. “I did _ not _ make friends with birds. My training methods were merely flawed.” 

Her smile turned into a snorted laugh. “You made friends with birds.” 

He was doing it again. Looking at her too fondly. What did it mean that they had met? What path was laid before him now? “It was a one-sided friendship then.” 

“Oh come - I’m sure they liked you too, Abelas,” she teased.

He laughed under his breath despite himself and poured the steaming water into their cups. “More's the pity for them then.”

She smirked up at him through dark lashes, a softness in her gaze that surprised him. Then by degrees, her expression slipped into something more serious, closed off again. “Did you mean it?”

It took him a moment to realize they’d switched to the discussion from last night, and his decision to stay. “I mean what I say.” 

“A rare thing,” she said, a hint of bitterness beneath her quiet tone, as she sat up and accepted the cup of tea he offered. “Thank you.”

Obviously she was referring to Fen’Harel, but was it that rare? His word had always been his bond. The oath he swore to Mythal, blazed into his skin, had been the unquestioned constant of his innumerable days. He sat back down on the mattress next to her. “Are you asking for my word?” 

She sipped her tea, deliberating. “If you give me your word, you’re bound to it, and I don’t want to be the keeper of your oath, Abelas. I’ve seen a promise become a prison. Or you break your word - not that I think that’s in your nature,” she added with a placating dip of her head, “and then what was the point of having it in the first place? No. Your decision is enough.”

His pulse beat faster at the rush of the unknown and her trust that a choice could be as powerful as an oath. “A rare thing,” he replied in kind, and they balanced there, on some fulcrum between duty and free will, too close and too far in the fragile light of day.

What were they to each other? A means to an end? Or perhaps not an end at all, but a beginning?

He covered his uncertainty with a sip of tea, still terrible, and wondered if he’d lived so long, seen so many things in the waking world and the Fade, that he’d come full circle and the most mundane things were the most mesmerizing. The patterns of freckles on a toned arm. The scent of lavender woven with pine. The shift of shadows across half-hooded gray eyes. 

He’d become a collector of the irreplaceable and the insignificant. 

“Were your dreams quiet?” he asked.

“Yes. Your doing?” 

He nodded and she thanked him.

“There was a message from Fen’Harel,” he said, loathe to break the quiet mood, but it would be better to get it into the open and be straightforward. “Routine check in only,” he reassured her as her shoulders tensed. He explained his reasoning for the message he’d left and she nodded slowly. 

“We should meet today in your version of events even if the Sentinels don’t find us - and you should try to heal me right away. If it _ had _ been today, I’d have been…” Her jaw tensed and she looked down into her cup.

“I know.”

“Anyway, the sooner our paths cross the better.”

“Agreed.”

“You know… we’re not far from Skyhold,” she said, measured, assessing his reaction. “That’s the place to start looking for answers.”

Skyhold. He’d heard the Inquisition was using one of Fen’Harel’s former dwellings as their base. Walking in at the side of the former Inquisitor was not how he would have anticipated first visiting that place, but it made sense that she wanted to go there. More surprising was the fact that she trusted him enough to bring him there - though it would also be easier to monitor his actions. 

“Maybe we can make it there if the Sentinels aren’t using magic. Use the Fade pathways to outrun them,” she suggested.

He sighed under the weight of the inevitable. “I do not have an exact count, but it would not be unreasonable to expect a dozen of them, including the Priestess.”

Her eyes went round and she swore under her breath. “Well. Don’t love those odds. Unlikely we’d survive an attack in the open.”

“It would be safest to stay in the cabin,” he agreed. “It gives us an opportunity to reduce their ranks without breaking cover.”

_ Everything could change in an instant. _ Nepenthe. _ Nehn enathe. _ The beginning of joy. And she didn’t even know.

“I guess there’s potatoes here, too, for while we wait,” she said, fear layered under the flippancy, then she drained the rest of her tea and placed the cup on the floor. 

When she sat back up, he gave into the impulse to brush a curl away from her cheek, his touch featherlight, lingering along the shell of her ear. It was meant to be a comforting gesture, but it instantly went somewhere more suggestive for both of them - his touch too exploratory, and her exhale too shaky, and the impending threat too keen. She met his eyes, and then after a moment, tipped her head back slightly. A wordless invitation, or a way to take the measure of his intent. And since this amorphous stretch before a battle might be all the time they got, he set his cup aside without removing his fingers from the corner of her jawline. 

Desire stirred slowly in his core, like water thawing from ice, as he continued his exploration down the column of her neck. She inhaled sharply when he reached the hollow of her collarbone and he wondered how anything in this muted world could spark something so bright inside him.

Some barrier between them fell then, and she reached for him, tracing the lines of his vallaslin across his forehead and around his temple. He fought the temptation to close his eyes at the sensation, and instead, ran his thumb along the neckline of her shirt, down her sternum and over a small star shaped scar - another mark with an unknown history behind it, another brand of duty like the one she bore on her arm, like the one he bore on his face.

A flush crept across her chest, and her heartbeat leapt under his fingertips. “We should get ready,” she said, and, at odds with her words, shifted closer. She stroked down his neck, lingering at the particularly sensitive spot just beneath his ear. A shiver shot down his spine and he felt himself grow half hard already. 

“Mmm,” he agreed. “I set mines last night which will help.” He found the top button of her shirt and their eyes met. "May I?" he asked and she nodded slowly. He undid it with careful deliberation and her exhale was a shaky sigh. 

“The assassins are... still concerning,” she said, leaning back slightly as he continued opening the front of her shirt.

“Yes, the assassins are concerning. You should… Ah.” Her hand drifted to the back of his neck and she ran her fingers along his scalp, subtly pulling him closer and he lost his train of thought. “You…” _ Focus. _

Amused desire flashed in her eyes, the victory of discovering something that left him fumbling for words.

He cleared his throat. “You should try a barrier spell and see how long you can safely sustain it.”

She continued to caress the back of his neck, a ghosting of a touch, as she cast a barrier around both of them. With the slight tingle of her magic against his skin, he returned his attention to her shirt, and she watched him slowly undress her, her breaths coming deep and measured. There was something electric in being so close but still not moving faster, still not kissing her, still not giving into the urge to pull her against him. Caught once more between wanting to rush and wanting to make it last for as long as he could before reality intruded.

He ran out of buttons and gently pushed open her shirt, revealing an expanse of flushed tawny skin and a white cotton bra fastened with a series of loops and hooks. It was far plainer than what would have been worn before the fall but he found he didn’t care, not when she was the one wearing it, not when she was looking at him like that. 

“So far, so good,” she said, nearly a question, and he realized the double meaning as a tremor ran through her barrier and a flicker of doubt crossed her face. She’d taken his silence for disapproval, and he was ashamed to admit it might have been not long ago. But it wasn’t now. Whatever the differences between them, she stirred something in him long buried, something he thought had been lost with everything else. He traced the outside curve of her breast over the thin material and ran his thumb over her nipple, watching it harden under his touch. “Better than good,” he said, his voice deep, fraying around the edges. She twisted and shuddered and, fenedhis, it was beautiful. She leaned forward and kissed him then, slow and deep, and he felt himself unraveling, anchored to this moment.

The barrier faltered and he reinforced it, working his magic around hers and feeling the frequencies snap into place. “Was it becoming dangerous or was it distraction?” he asked against her lips, slipping his fingers inside her bra.

She huffed a rueful laugh. “Both.” 

“I will help you maintain it. Can you feel my magic? Does it help?”

“Yes.” She pulled back and she was already achingly disheveled - flushed cheeks and dark eyes and parted lips. “I want to see you,” she whispered and pulled on the hem of his shirt.

He obliged, removing it and tossing it to the side. She studied him, mapping his shoulders, his chest, his faint scars - first with her eyes and then with her hand, and he flushed under her scrutiny, the exquisite way she matched his slow pace. He bit back a groan, stomach clenching, when she trailed her fingers over the faint line of hair that ran from his navel to his groin. If he’d been half hard before, he was fully so now.

He hooked a finger into the thin leather thongs holding the front of her bra closed. “May I?”

With a deep inhale, she nodded and he released it, and gods, he loved this part of discovery - her smooth curves, and her dark nipples pebbling in the cool air, and her chest rising and falling. The way she groaned his name when he couldn’t wait any longer, and pressed her back to the mattress, dipping his head to kiss up her stomach. He slid a hand to her thigh, the other against her lower back and ran his nose along the underside of her breast, then finally,_ finally, _took the peak of her nipple into his mouth. He teased with his tongue, varying pressure and technique and when he scraped his teeth ever so gently over sensitive skin, her hand clenched against his shoulder, and she pulled him closer between her legs. And this, this was what he wanted - to discover her tells, the places that made her moan, all the secrets her body held that he could learn. And time. Time to do so before everything fell apart.

The barrier dissipated with a faint hum and he should remember himself - they were supposed to be planning a defense. He released her nipple, hard and shining in the morning light, and trailed open mouthed kisses up to her neck. “Do you know how to fight,” a kiss against her pulse, “with anything besides magic,” another kiss below her ear, “if it comes to that?” He gently nipped her earlobe.

She arched her back, the peaks of her nipples grazing his chest and he couldn’t stop from rocking into her. “I can use a knife,” she gasped, her hips bucking to meet him and he shuddered at the pressure, rapidly losing the ability to think clearly. 

“Good,” he groaned against her ear and he wasn’t sure if he meant her knife skills or the way she was sliding against him or her arms around him or the warm press of her skin or maybe all of it. “Good,” he breathed mindlessly against her lips then kissed her deeply. She canted her hips to meet him again more firmly, and he was achingly hard, the world narrowed to this fog of raw need. 

His hand skimmed over the curves of her body, his touch firmer now as she moaned against his mouth. He felt down between them, searching for the laces of her trousers. Another loop easily opened and then he was working his fingers into her smalls. She broke off the kiss and dropped her head back to the mattress with a panted groan. Her waistband was too tight for him to get his hand any further and she seemed to realize this at the same time he did, both of them working to push her trousers off her hips and -

The wards sounded in his mind. 

He froze with the tip of his finger between damp curls, and snarled a curse against her neck.

“What? What is it?” 

Of course. He hadn’t linked her. “The wards,” he growled and pulled his hand out of her smalls, mind racing with defensive possibilities they hadn’t discussed.

“No. _ No_.” She scrambled up, working to refasten her trousers as he pulled on his shirt. 

An explosion shook the ground.

“Fuck! Any chance that was just an unlucky bear?” she asked, wide eyed, fumbling one handed with her bra. 

“Not unless it was infused with red lyrium,” he said over his shoulder, already layering on his chain mail.

She swore violently and he looked over to see the buttons on her shirt were giving her trouble. “I hate these Sentinels,” she spat, as he returned to her side and helped fasten the rest of them.

“Me too, molain. They come for vengeance, and they will deal it swiftly now.” He squeezed her fingers. “We won’t give them the chance.” 

Time was a harsh reality here. They would never have enough.

“I have some vengeance of my own to exact,” she muttered then moved to grab the rest of her armor. 

Abelas tucked himself next to the window, scanning the clearing while they finished dressing. Something rattled and he glanced over to see Nepenthe grab a knife from the kitchen drawer and stick it into the empty sheath on her belt. Things would get messy if it came to that. He’d have to find a way to keep the Sentinels from closing in.

As she joined him, a second explosion shook the cabin. Debris rained down from the roof and he snapped a barrier around them as they dropped into a crouch.

This was happening too fast - he hadn’t even gotten eyes on their approach.

“One of yours?” she asked, steadying herself against the floorboards.

“No. That was something else.”

He motioned her to the window on the other side of the door and slid back to the closest one. _ There. _Several figures slinking through the edge of the trees. “Three to the west,” he whispered. 

“I see them.”

Their antlered skulls glinted in the sunlight and they were doing something to ease their passage through the snow. Perhaps their avoidance of certain magic was less extensive than he’d thought. Or perhaps there were circumstances when they’d break their code.

He stretched his fingers and cracked his knuckles. They were still too far to effectively hit with a spell - and too far to have thrown a grenade_ . _

“Stay alert. There are others,” he warned her. “And if they’re assassins, they might be invisible. But they’re not incorporeal. Spells still affect them.” 

“What kind-”

The rest of her question was lost as the window broke and a metal container landed on the mattress. 

“Back!” He lunged across the door and grabbed her arm, pulling her behind the table. With a flash and a roar, the container exploded and the cabin filled with black smoke. His barrier held some of it back but it wouldn’t be enough. 

“Try not to breathe it and get to the back wall.” 

She scrambled ahead of him, her Fade hand glowing faintly in the misty darkness. Holding his breath, he aimed a fireball in the direction of the front door. They’d be expected to come out that way. There was a crash and a scream from the porch. Someone had gotten too close.

He cast his next spell through the back wall - a blast of energy that blew out a section between the upright supports.

Smoke poured out the opening and he followed it, pulling her after him. The force of the spell had cleared the immediate area of snow and he gulped cleaner air as he quickly scanned the surrounding woods. They seemed to be alone. 

He turned to Nepenthe. “Head to the woodshed. You can-” Before he’d even finished the sentence, there was a flash of blue between her palms and an electric hum as her spell flew over his shoulder. 

“Careful,” he warned reflexively, snapping his head around. If the barrier holding back the call opened now, he’d lose her.

Her spell clipped the shoulder of a Sentinel as she ducked behind a tree, ice ringing against metal. 

He followed her spell with one of his own and the tree exploded. Another down.

A group of three Sentinels, two with bows drawn, rounded the side of the cabin. The true fight was just beginning.

He sent a blast of fire toward them, and they dropped back, but the straw roof of the cabin began to smolder on the edge. “Behind,” Nepenthe yelled. Abelas whirled. Another three had slipped into the woods on the other side of them, exactly what he’d wanted to avoid. 

“I have them. Watch for assassins.” A series of fire spells immolated the arrows they shot, but they fanned out and took up positions in the woods. He thought he saw the Priestess among them.

They were surrounded. They would get no mercy. He glanced toward the woodshed. It might provide additional cover, and was where his pack was stashed, but getting there would expose them. 

Everything required his focus. The barrier, and the arrows, and Nepenthe at his back, and the Sentinels closing in to his right. All his senses were heightened, his breaths coming short and fast.

Magic pooled around his hands, and he released it in a crackle of lightning that wrapped around the two nearest Sentinels. They shrieked and clawed at their skin, the scent of burning hair sharp in the cold air. He flung his other hand toward an arrow loosed from the trees. There was a low whoosh as he cast a fire barrier. The arrow went up in flames when it passed through and he ducked as it smashed through the barrier as ash. The fire barrier wouldn’t last long on snow but once it melted he could create a longer lasting one. 

Nepenthe made a strangled sound behind him and another flash of her magic flickered in his periphery. He instantly redirected most of his barrier to her. Before he could turn, the lingering smoke in front of him parted strangely. Raw fear coiled in his gut. Assassin. She was on him before he could cast. Pain sliced above his brow and blood sluiced into his eyes. He dropped and rolled away from Nepenthe, further into the clearing. He felt the barrier around him hum with both of their frequencies. _ Venavis. _She was redirecting the barrier to him. His eyes stung and he tried to wipe them, squinting to see. A blade glinted, not so much metal as light, as it arced toward Nepenthe. He slashed out with a blast of ice and there was a thud and a crunch. The assassin hitting the cabin wall. She became visible as she crashed to the ground, ice around her torso. Not just a Sentinel. The Priestess. Nepenthe pivoted, slashed, her own knife tight in her grip. Blood sprayed from the Priestess’s throat. She grabbed for Nepenthe’s legs and she slashed again. Knife skills indeed.

There was a sound from the other side of the cabin. Shouts. More Sentinels? _ Fenedhis. _They wouldn’t survive more. 

Nepenthe seemed to hear it too and kicked out of the Priestess’s weakening grasp. She started to run to him and he saw the shimmer on the frozen ground too late. The bloody grimace of the dying Priestess as she clenched her fist. 

“No!”

The mine detonated.

Smoke and noise. A ringing in his ears. Had the barrier been on him or her? He sat up coughing, a sharp pain in his shoulder. His vision swam, black spots drifting in front of his eyes. He wiped at them and drew his hand away with blood on his fingers. Right - the cut on his forehead. With a curse - his voice sounded strange, too loud in his head - he got to his feet and pain radiated down his left arm where it hung uselessly by his side. He glanced at it like it belonged to someone else. He’d dislocated his shoulder again. 

She was on her back by the cabin wall. What was left of it anyway. There were shouts somewhere, muffled, but this side of the clearing was empty. Blackened. Bloody. But empty.

He crouched by her side, a hollow, loose feeling in his chest. There was blood on her face and arm, but it was hard to know if it was all hers. The trickle from her nose - that at least he was certain of. He reached for her neck, fingers sliding across skin streaked with sweat and smoke and dirt to find her pulse. His breath was all he could hear.

There. _ There. _He tried not to think too hard about what the nearly overwhelming flood of relief meant and instead splayed his fingers over her breastplate and began to work a healing spell.

A shadow fell across him and the tip of a blade pressed to his throat. “If you want to live, I’d move away,” said a deep voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> curious if you have any thoughts on who just showed up...  
Thanks, as always, for all the ways you all interact with this story!! 💚💚💚


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